


No Turning Back Now

by artemisaro



Category: Hadestown - Mitchell
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:48:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25027993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artemisaro/pseuds/artemisaro
Summary: Orpheus moves to a big city to be a part of the connection he feels between other people. He doesn't expect to fall in love with the people he meets and sees on a daily basis. He certainly doesn't expect to fall in love with the girl who watches him play every day in the metro station, before he even learns her name.When she gets a hold of his song book and he follows her through a complicated twist of clues and games to get it back, he realizes he may indeed be destined for the kind of love he feared he'd never had.The only question is will she follow him when it's he who's uncertain of where he stands?Very loosely based on the musical adaptation of Amélie.
Relationships: Eurydice/Orpheus (Hadestown), Hermes & Orpheus (Hadestown), Orpheus & Persephone (Hadestown)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 52





	1. Chapter 1

Orpheus knew from the start that he was going to leave eventually. For as long as he remembered, he could see the ties that bound others together, in the way children held on to their parents’ hands, in the way strangers smiled at other strangers, and in the way people gathered around street musicians to hear them play. He wanted to be a part of that.

When he was little, his tubby fingers would lightly pluck the strings of a guitar that was too big for him, and he would close his eyes and imagine what it would be like to find the kind of story he saw surrounding him every time he went outside.

Son of a muse and a mortal king, Orpheus reached out to both. To his father, who was busy running a kingdom and had no time for a boy who ran out into fields of daisies and sang until the birds learned to stop and listen. To his mother, who quickly forgot about the child she’d borne and left, as muses tended to do. There were very few children around to play with, and Orpheus learned to amuse himself. He poured his thoughts into countless sheets of music, pretended his mother leaving didn’t sting nearly as much as it did.

Orpheus grew up alone, though he didn’t know at the time what loneliness was. His father grew more distant at the departure of his muse, and Orpheus was thrust into a world he knew little about. A world where people didn’t stay, sometimes, but a world where they fell in love anyway and lived as though heartbreak wasn’t an inevitability. And maybe it wasn’t. When Orpheus watched happy couples on the street passing by, when he saw lonely people praying in church, when he saw children running and laughing and playing together, he was certain that although heartbreak had struck him, it did not happen to everybody. Or, at the very least, everything that came before made the heartbreak worth it.

Seeing the love between people as they casually went about their lives was one thing, but writing it down, capturing it in a song… that was quite another. Orpheus’ first attempts were flimsy at best, and the notes he lightly played well into the night were like children’s paintings compared to the Mona Lisas that filled his dreams. The music wasn’t _right_ , no matter how hard he worked at it. He saw the feelings he tried to weave into it, felt them beating against his own chest. There was nobody to share them with other than the birds and the flowers and the stars, and he wrote song after song, trying to get it right. Trying to capture the magic he saw that bound everyone so tightly together.

Dreams and music were all Orpheus had as he passed from childhood to adulthood. He still looked at everything around him with a sense of wonder that was curious for someone who was afraid to engage with anyone. Heartbreak didn’t happen to everyone, but it happened to him. His mother was a muse, and she had left. If Orpheus found a muse, if he loved someone with the depth his father had loved Calliope, what would keep them from leaving as well? As he grew up, that thought was pushed back and back, further and further into his head. Still, it remained, never fully forgotten.

So Orpheus counted the days. He wrote one song for every day he stayed, one song about the world he could find when he struck out on his own, like he had wanted to do for so long. His father’s kingdom was not his own. He wanted to find his own path.

And then one day, the opportunity came. He picked up his guitar – now just the right size – and bid his father farewell, though he doubted he was heard over the rustle of paper as his father poured through the poems Calliope had given him for the thousandth time. Those poems didn’t breathe the way people did, the way _music_ did.

The train travelled faster than Orpheus had expected. He pressed his face to the window, watching city after city pass by, watching the forests turn into grassland and then into buildings and mountains, and he smiled. When he turned around he saw the way the man taking tickets smiled at the woman selling snacks. He saw the smile on the face of the woman with a phone pressed to her ear. She may not have been close enough to understand, but Orpheus could _hear_ the joy in her tone. Yes, he had made the right choice to leave.

It seemed to last forever and not long enough, all at the same time. If Orpheus could have frozen those moments on the train, those people and those lives he had touched for scarcely a second, he would have.

The train finally reached its destination just before sunrise, and Orpheus held his breath as he stepped off. Buildings rose up like trees around him, smothering the sky and blotting out the stars. They created their own stars, in a way. Lights shone out of windows stretching hundreds of feet in the air, and each had its own story. The people pushing past Orpheus likely didn’t know each other, but Orpheus couldn’t help but wonder how many of them had passed by each other dozens if not hundreds of times before without even realizing it.

The train had been reloaded with passengers and was now speeding off in a new direction, taking countless strangers to places Orpheus knew he could only begin to imagine. For the first time, he felt very, very small.

Finally, Orpheus took his first several steps forward. There were so many people walking by, staring at the ground as though they didn’t realize how _alive_ everything was here. As though they didn’t care about the stories that were occurring alongside their own. Still, Orpheus found them beautiful.

Finding an apartment was not as simple a task as Orpheus had hoped it would be. There were very few places with “for rent” signs up, and those that were wouldn’t accept his meager down payment – the handful of coins he’d stashed in his guitar case as soon as he’d saved enough to buy a train ticket and make his way out. He knew he’d need to find a job soon, but for now the issue was the apartment.

He had time, fortunately, to find a place to crash. The sun was just barely making its way over the horizon, and in the summer heat it promised to be a hot one. The early morning rush was beginning, more lights turning on in windows and more people flooding the streets and going about their daily business.

It didn’t take very long for Orpheus to find a bench on the edge of a park to settle down on, open up his guitar case, and start playing. Given the early hour, most of the pedestrians were businessfolk, all heading to work with their eyes fixed on the sidewalk below their feet. Although Orpheus knew he wouldn’t get much of a crowd, he figured some of these people could use a little bit more music in their life. Perhaps it would make them look at something other than the path directly in front of them. That idea urged a smile onto the corners of Orpheus’ face, and he slowly began playing. It was a song he’d finished the day he’d saved up enough to leave. There was something special, something victorious about it that Orpheus felt even now as his fingers pressed into the frets of the guitar and he strummed the familiar chords. He didn’t sing, not yet. The city – though never exactly silent – was too quiet for that now.

Orpheus attracted a few wandering eyes, but nobody stopped to watch him play until the sun climbed higher and schoolchildren began making their way out of their homes and rushing to school in clusters of three or four or seven. He heard the gentle ‘ooh’s and ‘ah’s of the children as they walked past him, some of them deciding they would rather watch for a few minutes and then worry about how to make up the extra couple of minutes they had lost later.

Aware that more than a few of the children had stopped by, Orpheus lifted his gaze and gave them a shy smile.

“Any requests?” His voice was crackly from disuse after the train journey, and it seemed some of the children were startled by the adult (well, basically adult. Nineteen didn’t feel that adult to Orpheus) acknowledging them. It took a few soft smiles and a few more long moments before one particularly brave child stepped forward to request a song, and once Orpheus played that one, the requests began pouring in.

Little by little, the children began to disperse as school bells tolled warnings that being late was probably not a particularly good idea. Orpheus found himself more or less alone when he heard a voice sound behind him.

“A’ight.”

Orpheus turned, the wind carrying away the final notes of the melody he’d been playing. Behind him stood a rather tall man, his kind face crinkled by age and laughter.

“Don’t stop playing on my account,” the man said, moving to take a seat on the other side of the bench Orpheus had chosen. “I haven’t heard music like that in many years.”

Orpheus gave a soft smile and turned his gaze back to the guitar, modifying his volume so he was playing only for the man’s ears.

“Just off the train?” the man asked after a few minutes, and Orpheus looked up, startled.

“That obvious?”

“I know the type. I see several every day.”

“Oh.” Orpheus’ voice was quiet, and he looked away from the man’s warm brown gaze.

“I conduct the trains, you see. From here to nowhere to anywhere at all. Where are you from, boy?”

“Nowhere,” Orpheus replied, a smile pulling at the corner of his lips.

“Well,” the man began, bracing his hands against his knees as he pushed himself to his feet. “I best be going, but you’ll be needing a place to stay, boy. I can pull a few favors if you play for me once in a while. Here.” He pulled an envelope out of his pocket and quickly wrote down an address, which he handed to Orpheus. “Ask for Hermes.” He winked, dusting himself off before taking a step away. Orpheus stood as well, letting his guitar swing towards his back.

“Orpheus,” Orpheus called, stopping Hermes in his tracks. “My name is Orpheus. Thank you, Mr. Hermes.”

Hermes gave a knowing smile and continued forward, leaving Orpheus alone to play until the sun burned too hot to withstand.

By the time the midday sun grew unbearable, Orpheus found himself on the outside of a worn brick building complete with window boxes full of flowering planters and the soft chatter of friendly neighbors as they passed each other in the lobby. Orpheus took in a deep breath, squeezed his hand tighter around the address, and stepped in.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for such kind comments on Chapter 1!! Those really made my day and made me excited to keep working on this <33  
> I can't promise regular updates but this is my July NaNo project so expect pretty frequent updates this month!
> 
> Thank you again for your support and I hope you enjoy Chapter 2!

“Orpheus, change the menu for today, please!”

“Lady Persephone, I’m-”

“Orpheus.”

Orpheus set down his guitar and donned his apron, moving behind the counter to update the menu.

Two years felt like an awfully long time to Orpheus, but when he looked back he found it felt like no time at all had passed. While he was no longer the same starry-eyed boy who had first stepped foot off the train, he retained the same childlike wonder and the urge to be a part of the web he saw spun between the thousands of people whose lives touched every day, if only for a second.

He now lived in the apartment above Hermes – who he insisted upon calling “Mr. Hermes.” It was initially on account of politeness, but it had quickly become habit.

He’d landed a job at the neighborhood café not a week after arriving. Most of Orpheus’ average day was spent serving and bussing tables and getting to know each regular (and each newcomer) and their eccentricities. Persephone, confident and quite often rather sardonic, was a good boss in spite of her only being present for half of each year. Orpheus was used to seeing her walk into work, look at the mail delivered to the café and rip up the crisp white, hand-addressed envelope that appeared at the top of the stack every week. Persephone owned the Lady of Ways Café, and the mail was hers to do with what she chose, but Orpheus couldn’t help but wonder what was hidden in those letters that she so badly wanted to avoid.

Orpheus glanced over from where he stood, writing the daily specials on the chalkboard in his absolute best penmanship. It still looked like flowery chicken scratch to Orpheus, but the customers seemed to consider it legible and that was all that mattered.

7:05. Right on time, just after opening, Hermes slipped into the café and took his usual seat off to the side. He could watch people there, without people paying much attention to him themselves. Orpheus slipped by his booth and delivered him the usual order: a cup of Earl Grey tea. There was something else on the saucer this time too – a cake pop Orpheus had made a point of doodling a lopsided frosting smiley-face on.

“Since you won’t be back until next week,” Orpheus offered as an explanation before smiling and turning back around to clean off some of the tables one last time before the next guests arrived. Orpheus had most of their orders memorized, though he always liked to check to make sure. Although very little ever changed, it was unsafe to assume that it would remain the same forever. The thought of things changing – beyond the small change in café orders – was frightening to Orpheus. Life was good and steady, and the one downside was that Orpheus still couldn’t manage to capture the feelings he wanted in his music. They seemed to shift away from him every time he tried, like a string that was always just a little bit out of tune.

Humanity, Orpheus had decided, was like a web. There were weak strands and stronger ones, but with even just one missing, the picture the web painted would be quite different. Finally, finally, Orpheus found himself secured in the web, the connections he had no longer so tenuous that they would snap with the slightest pull. And yet, the songs he wrote, the ones where he tried to capture the essence of it, the strength of the pull he still felt towards the ties between others… they were no better at capturing the soul of it than a grainy photograph was at capturing the splendor of a sunset.

“Good morning, Clotho,” Orpheus greeted, pulled out of his thoughts by the sound of the bell that signaled the café door opening. Although all three of the sisters spent a great deal of time gossiping and mingling around the café, Clotho always arrived first. She said nothing, just smirked at Orpheus as she did every morning and took her seat in the center of the room. With the silvery dresses and long, almost sharpened nails, there was no way anyone was going to miss noticing any of the three sisters. In the center of the café, they could hear what was going on in almost any corner of the room.

Persephone raised an eyebrow at Orpheus as she dropped Clotho’s breakfast in front of her and moved behind the counter to toss back a shot of something Orpheus knew it was too early for.

“Your turn,” she mouthed, and Orpheus almost sighed audibly.

“So, Orpheus,” Clotho said as Orpheus drew nearer. She casually popped the last bite of a piece of toast in her mouth before fixing her gaze squarely on Orpheus. “What’s new since yesterday?” There was a challenge in her eyes as she casually took a sip of her iced coffee.

Orpheus forced a smile as he swept the floor around Clotho’s table, determined to finish the task before there was more than one of them there to ask questions. They had a habit of reading people from their expressions, without them having to say anything at all.

“Have you finished that song you said you were working on months ago?” Clotho’s voice was light and casual, though there was something glittering in her eyes. “You promised it would be done months ago.” The sisters were harmless, mostly. They just enjoyed the fact that they always somehow knew more about what was going on than anyone else in the room seemed to. Clotho especially knew how to pick out the beginnings of an insecurity and pry at it enough to sting.

“Not yet, Clotho,” Orpheus replied, not quite looking up. “I’m sure you’ll be one of the first to hear it when I do.”

Satisfied enough with the answer – or having more interesting things to think about than Orpheus’ passion project – Clotho turned back to her breakfast and Orpheus finished sweeping. He passed Persephone on his way to empty the dustpan, and he heard her voice follow him.

“We’re all anxious for the song, you know, Orpheus.”

“I work on it during breaks,” Orpheus returned, peeking his head back around the corner. “It’ll be done soon, I’m just working on… a prototype of it.”

“You could do something, you know. With your music.”

Orpheus froze. “Are you… firing me?”

“No,” Persephone laughed softly, adjusting the green bow she’d tied in her hair to keep part of it out of her face. “But there is more to life than The Lady of Ways. Clotho has a point.”

“I like it here,” Orpheus offered a genuine smile before ducking back into the kitchen to warn the cook that it might be time to begin Lachesis’ regular order as well. “I like being part of the web,” he added to himself, slipping back into the sun-warmed seating area. There were a few more customers that had slid in while Orpheus hadn’t been paying attention, and he greeted each with a kind smile and a brief nod. That was how the world revolved in the Lady of Ways. It was a cluster of stories that overlapped just for a bit every day, and even if Orpheus personally wouldn’t read some of those stories given the choice, it was still a beautiful thing to bear witness to. It was different from the kind of world Orpheus had grown up in, so he treasured it.

“Orpheus.” The voice came from Hermes’ corner of the room, and though it was quiet it easily drew Orpheus’ attention. He moved to put away the coffee pot he had grabbed to refill someone’s cup, then made his way back over to Hermes. He was thoughtfully spinning the stick of the cake pop in his fingers, smiling at the terrible frosting doodle.

“Yes, Mr. Hermes?”

“I’ve spoken with Persephone about giving you the rest of the day off. I’d like you to accompany me to the station.”

Orpheus turned his head to catch a glimpse of Persephone, who gave a nod of affirmation. She pushed her hair out of her face and busied herself scribbling something down while there was a momentary lull in customer activity.

“Why?” Orpheus inquired, brows furrowing. “Have I done something wrong?”

“No.” Hermes smiled, finished off the cake pop, then stood up and shrugged his silver-y jacket on. Orpheus always thought it made him look very distinguished. “There’s something I want to show you.”

\--

It didn’t take very long to get to the station, though that was in part because Orpheus’ quiet playing as he and Hermes walked made the time go by faster. Orpheus loved the way the music seemed to reverberate in the street, the vibrations catching on the walls of the buildings towering around them and dispersing outwards in almost every direction. They received a few odd looks along the way, but that was to be expected.

Orpheus frowned at Hermes after a moment as they stepped into the station, which was bustling with hundreds of people all going about their day. Orpheus could see businessfolk at the beginning of their lunch break stepping out of the tunnel that led to the metro part of the station, and families with kids that couldn’t quite stay still working their way (slowly but surely) the other direction, towards the trains. Employees at the restaurant in the corner chattered excitedly amongst themselves, and Orpheus smiled. It was like a microcosm of the city itself, all in one building – a taste of what the rest of the world was like. Orpheus hadn’t been back since he’d first arrived years before. It wasn’t that he avoided it, it was just that he preferred to walk.

“What did you want to show me?” Orpheus asked, letting the last of a song trail off as Hermes took a seat in the waiting area and gracefully crossed one leg over the other.

“You don’t play much for people, Orpheus.”

“No, I… I suppose I don’t, but I don’t-”

“The day we met, we met because you chose to.”

“Well, yes-”

“Here is as good a place as any to start.”

Orpheus’ brow furrowed and he considered that, looking around as though the idea had never occurred to him. He played for Hermes, and sometimes for the café customers, but never in public.

“People might think I want money,” he worried, casting a glance around. “I don’t want people to think they have to pay if they want to listen…”

“Your music asks to be heard, Orpheus,” Hermes insisted, a ghost of a smile on his face. “At least consider it. Put yourself out there, there are people who want to hear you.”

Orpheus frowned, remembering all too well the sarcasm hidden in Clotho’s voice when she asked if he had finished his song. It wasn’t perfect, and he didn’t want to share that one with anybody yet. Not until it was finished. But was his other music enough? Uncertainty flooded Orpheus, and as though Hermes could tell he shifted and raised one eyebrow.

“Try it once. You can’t stay underneath my wing forever.” With that, Hermes stood up slowly and dipped his head before heading towards his platform. Orpheus considered following, but Hermes didn’t look back. Orpheus would have to pay him a visit after work in a few days, just to make sure he got home safely.

With Hermes gone, Orpheus was suddenly struck by how quiet the lobby of the station seemed, even with the quiet buzz of conversation and the occasional loud shriek from a child begging their parents to  _ please, please, please _ take them into the ice cream parlor  _ just for a taste. _ There was life here, as there was everywhere, but it didn’t feel complete.

Hermes had said he could play here, and though Orpheus wasn’t entirely certain Hermes was high enough up the food chain to authorize it, at the very least he didn’t think it was  _ illegal _ just to play, if he wasn’t soliciting. Tentatively, he shifted his guitar back into position and began to play. Hermes had once again picked a chair near the corner of the room, where everyone could be seen. For the first time, Orpheus thought he understood that decision. It was easier to play when he could watch everyone around him, read their reactions, see if any were coming closer.

Nobody seemed to notice at first, though whether that was because Orpheus was playing so quietly or because people had a tendency to ignore anything they didn’t consider part of the normal routine was anybody’s guess. Confident that nobody was approaching to reprimand him, Orpheus let his eyes close and let the music consume him.

Orpheus couldn’t be sure how much time had passed before he opened his eyes again, but he’d cycled through some of the songs he’d written and finished since arriving in the city. He’d even started singing, quietly. The last thing Orpheus had expected was for anyone to actually stop and listen, but when he lifted his head he found a small crowd had gathered in front of him.

“Oh,” he murmured, the lyrics faltering as he processed the surprise.

One person immediately looked guilty, as though they’d stumbled upon something they shouldn’t have, and turned to go. The rest remained where they were, some even offering Orpheus an encouraging smile. It was different from when he’d played for the schoolchildren, Orpheus noticed. They had been shy at first, but then they had peppered him with song ideas and watched his hands carefully as though they could learn how to play just from watching. The adults remained where they were, much further away, and seemed hesitant about listening at all. Orpheus saw one woman reach into her purse for her wallet, count out her cash, then give Orpheus a guilty look as she scuttled away. Though he wanted to call her back, to tell her he didn’t need money to provide music, he figured she would be more embarrassed by that than she would be pleased.

So Orpheus continued, strumming quietly and letting his voice join the mix again as he grew more comfortable with the idea of being watched as he played. The crowd watching him seemed to be rather fluid. Sometimes a child would tug their parent in his direction, and a few people would leave as they heard their train announced. He gave a small nod to every newcomer and smiled at the people who hesitantly watched from a greater distance, hoping that they understood that the music was for anyone who wanted to pay attention to it.

“Do you have an album?” Someone asked, and Orpheus’ eyes widened in surprise as he turned to look at a young man with curled, golden hair.

“No,” he replied quietly, continuing to strum as he did so. It was no longer a specific song, just an exercise in making things up on the spot.

“Shame,” the man responded, then gave a shrug and leaned back on the wall to listen more. He, too, left eventually, and Orpheus got used to the constant shifting of his audience.

Some stayed longer than others – there was a group of old men that stayed to listen for at least an hour before they moved on, though most only stayed for a few minutes a time. Most of them seemed to leave in slightly brighter spirits, Orpheus noticed, which was all he could have asked for.

There was something about playing like this, allowing himself to be heard, to be  _ known _ , that made Orpheus feel  _ alive _ . He would have to thank Hermes later.

Time passed around Orpheus, though he was only aware of it happening. Paths of bright sunlight lengthened as the sun rose and shone more intensely through the cathedral-style windows of the station, and every few minutes an announcer’s voice would come through the loudspeaker declaring the departures and arrivals of various trains. Orpheus couldn’t help but wonder why he’d never thought to come back here. When he needed the metro, he’d never had an excuse to get off at the central hub. Perhaps, he thought, he would need to find some more excuses.

It took Orpheus a few hours to realize that, though the crowd was constantly shifting, there was one face that remained the same. She sat rather far away, but she kept casting glances in Orpheus’ direction as though afraid she’d be noticed. In her lap she held a magazine that she was only vaguely flipping through, her eyes drifting off the page more often than not. Even from a distance, Orpheus could tell she wasn’t actually reading. At first he’d thought she must have just been ridiculously early for her train, but a few more hours passed and she stayed firmly planted in her seat.

Orpheus tried to ignore the girl at first, afraid she might think he was staring. He could have been wrong, of course. Maybe she hadn’t been sitting in that same seat when Orpheus had first arrived with Hermes. Maybe she wasn’t listening to him at all, maybe she was instead wishing he would stop. Nonetheless, the rest of the crowd became background noise as Orpheus’ glances up at the girl became more and more frequent.

The sun must have just crested the top of the windows, because her hair was bathed in golden light, reflecting beautifully off the dark locks that were trimmed to just below her chin. Orpheus’ heart picked up speed, though he told himself it was just the rhythm of the music it was following.

Like heartsick schoolchildren, they avoided meeting each other’s gaze – whether by luck or object – for several hours before Orpheus looked up once, right at the bridge of a song, and found the girl’s eyes – warm and brown, wide and intense – locked on his own. The girl flushed red and quickly grabbed her belongings, shoved the magazine into her bag, and left. Only then did Orpheus’ playing falter, wondering at the girl’s hasty departure.

He played for a few more hours, giving a kind smile to every new face who came to watch and a nod to each as they departed, but his thoughts weren’t entirely on the music anymore. He kept seeing that girl, the way the reflection of the sun danced on her dark hair, revealing the rich brown of the wispy strands and adding a sheen to the rest. He saw the subtle tilt of her lips when she smiled and thought he didn’t notice, and the look in those eyes, a look he didn’t have the words to describe.

He wanted to find those words. He wanted that with the same passion he felt about finding the right words for the song he kept anchored in his heart.


	3. Chapter 3

When Orpheus closed his eyes, he saw her. He didn’t know why that felt like a big deal, why he cared so much about whether he’d ever see her face again, but he did. He stayed awake that night, staring out the window of his bedroom and messing around with the chords of the song he couldn’t get right.

The lights outside of his window were bright enough that, though he couldn’t see the stars, there was still enough light to see by as he opened up the notebook he’d been writing in. The pages seemed to remember where he left off, as they drifted open to the page he’d last worked on. Perhaps it was because it was the page he’d troubled over for the past several weeks, and had been creased open countless times so the pages wouldn’t flip on their own.

The book was placed in the windowsill, where it could best be seen by the streetlights and billboards outside. In front of him, Orpheus could see another building with several illuminated windows, each one concealing a person (or group of people) going about their own lives, with no idea there was someone wondering at the mysteries their curtains concealed.

Though the novelty of it had worn off, Orpheus couldn’t help but remember the wonder he’d felt the first time he’d seen the large apartment buildings arcing above his head. Perhaps there was another young idealist arriving in the city for the first time who now saw his curtains open and wondered about his story. He was like one tiny flame, burning in a lit sea of candles – each one unique, but all of them made of the same things. He was just burning a little bit later than most people tended to.

Orpheus didn’t even seem to register the need to get some rest. He was flooded with inspiration, with ideas as to how to improve the song, with the insatiable need to make progress on it. It was like he was deaf to the world around him, hearing only the notes and lyrics that didn’t quite fit together yet.

It was something about the girl. Something about the way warmth blazed through him when their eyes met, the way his soul felt hollowed out when she ran away. Like he’d had something indescribable for only a moment, only to lose it moments later. Looking back, he wondered how he could be certain he’d even had it in the first place. Was connection that ephemeral? Was life?

Frustrated, Orpheus scratched out the most recent verse he’d tried, and began scribbling another attempt in the margins. The page was so crowded with haphazard scribbles that anyone but Orpheus likely wouldn’t be able to tell what the most current version of the lyrics were. Even he wasn’t sure if the new ones were an improvement over the last fifteen attempts – it felt like he was going in circles, coming nearer and nearer to a breakthrough. Or perhaps he was just nearing the edge of a black hole, on the brink of being sucked into an abyss of imperfect lyrics and broken melodies.

No, he had to be getting closer. Looking at the girl from the train station, he had felt a concentrated form of the feeling he wanted to capture. It was a more intense form of what he’d felt since he was small, watching the people around him weave in and out of each other’s lives. He had the distinct impression that nobody ever truly forgot the people whose lives they touched for just a moment – he had heard somewhere that every face that appeared in dreams was a face you had seen somewhere before. That meant that the mind somehow catalogued every interaction, no matter how small. Never before had Orpheus remembered anyone’s face quite so  _ vividly _ though. A tiny voice in the back of his head wondered whether she was still awake and seeing his.

Absently, Orpheus tucked his pen behind his ear and stared at the notes scrawled in the book. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, fingers dancing over the frets and strings, but not pressing hard enough to actually make noise. He was just going through the motions, imagining what it would sound like before he actually gave life to it. It wasn’t so much that he heard something in his head and couldn’t replicate it. No, the problem ran much deeper. He was good at translating sounds from his imagination into reality. The issue was in translating a feeling to a sound.

It still wasn’t right, but Orpheus had the feeling he was getting close. He could conjure up the feeling now, hold it in his heart for long enough to examine it, and that  _ had _ to be a step forward, right?

Orpheus leaned back, letting his head rest on the back of his chair as he quietly strummed. When he next opened his eyes, sunlight was filtering in through the window, refracting off the shine of his guitar, and redistributing on the wall. Orpheus stretched, his back protesting the awkward position he’d fallen asleep in.

The alarm on his phone was beeping, he realized, and he was grateful he’d remembered to set the alarm the night before. Lady Persephone had been kind to give him the whole day off the day before, but that meant he needed to be at work on time this morning, at least in time to make sure the bread was put in the oven. Determined not to be late, Orpheus quickly threw himself together and grabbed his guitar.

He made it to the café with about thirty seconds to spare. Persephone gave him a look that contained a little more scrutiny than he was comfortable with, and he donned his apron just as the clock struck six. Technically on time, though the café itself wouldn’t open for another hour. Orpheus sent a small smile Persephone’s way as he made his way back into the kitchen, nodded at the single chef that was beginning to set up, and put the bread in the oven. He gave the dough a quick sniff beforehand, reveling in the scent of the lavender they mixed in with one of the breads. It was one of the most ordered items on the menu.

“Orpheus,” Persephone called from the dining room, and Orpheus finished up what he was doing and left the kitchen to join her.

“Yes, Lady Persephone?”

Persephone hesitated for a long moment before shaking her head as though she had forgotten what she was going to say.

“Change the menu before we open today,” she said instead, though they both knew that wasn’t what was originally planned.

“I worked on the song last night,” Orpheus commented, not wanting to forget before the café opened. Not wanting to let Persephone go before she remembered what she had been about to say.

“Oh?” Persephone crossed her arms, raising one brow expectantly.

“I just thought you should know. I… I think I’m getting closer.”

Persephone’s severe expression softened. “Good. We all need a song like that.” She cast an anxious glance at the calendar they kept behind the counter to record customer pre-orders. Persephone had returned to open the café even later than usual this year, and though it was only July they had no way of knowing when it would close again. Though they had tried to be quiet about it, Orpheus had heard Persephone and Hermes whispering about the possibility of Hermes taking over during the winter, but there was no set decision. Or if there was, Orpheus hadn’t heard it. “Orpheus?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think you can get it done by winter?”

Orpheus hesitated. Although nobody said it aloud, they were all afraid that one winter, Persephone would never return. “I can try, Lady Persephone. May I… may I ask a question?”

“What is it?” There was a bit of wariness in Persephone’s tone, something she used liberally on customers but very rarely on Orpheus.

“Why do you go back to him? If you don’t want to?”

“Change the menu, Orpheus.” She turned her back on him, scrubbing angrily at a spot on one of the tables that hadn’t come out in years.

\--

Persephone didn’t say much to Orpheus, nor did any of the other customers, until almost halfway through the day when Lachesis came to join Clotho at their usual table. Orpheus avoided them for a few long moments, instead taking a little bit of extra time asking another customer if they were absolutely  _ certain _ they didn’t want dessert, before he turned to regard the two women and to take Lachesis’ order.

Of the three sisters, Lachesis’ order was the one that varied the most. She had sampled almost everything on the menu, and though her coffee order was always the same, whether she would order breakfast or lunch was anybody’s guess, let alone which specific item she’d choose. Although older than Clotho, she was rarely predictable except in her almost unending patience. Especially when it came to making people doubt themselves – when it came to stirring things up in a way that nobody would notice. There was something vaguely unsettling about all of the sisters, and while they never seemed intentionally malicious, there was always something they didn’t say. Lachesis in particular.

“Where were you yesterday?” Lachesis asked as Orpheus drew closer, and he gave an almost-smile instead of answering.

“Hermes took him away for the day,” Clotho answered, raising her third iced coffee of the day to her lips. She leaned back in her chair, somehow managing to look suave in spite of the fact that the chairs had a bad habit of toppling to the ground at times.

“Hermes deprived us of our poet for the day?” Lachesis asked, raising an eyebrow. “Shame,” she added, sounding like she couldn’t care less.

“What would you like today, Lachesis?”

“Straight to the point, I see.”

“The sooner I take your order, the sooner you’ll get it.”

“You know we don’t come here for the food,” Lachesis replied, stifling a yawn behind her hand. “We’re here for the people. Such interesting people, wouldn’t you say, Clotho?”

“Absolutely.”

Slightly unnerved, Orpheus opened up his little notepad, giving Lachesis an expectant glance.

“Make it the French toast with a side of hash browns.” She leveled Orpheus with a look that could only be disappointment, and he shrugged it off before taking the order back to the kitchen.

Orpheus had always wondered why the Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos decided to frequent The Lady of Ways, but he had never gotten a straight answer from them, or from Persephone or Hermes. There was history, but they seemed to get along well enough and the last thing Orpheus wanted to do was rekindle any old grudges. If the women wanted to sit there and gossip loudly about the others who frequented the café and give Orpheus a hard time about his music… well, they weren’t exactly doing anything wrong, so there was no reason to hold that against them. Even if Orpheus was a little on edge around them at times.

The afternoon crowd tended to be a little less work than the morning crowd, simply because they were in less of a rush. Besides the lunch crowd that usually came in shortly after Lachesis’ arrival, afternoon patrons were more willing to linger and chat over a cup of coffee than the morning crowd, who more often than not had work to get to.

Breezing through the lunch rush, Orpheus had plenty of time to think about the girl from the train station and the letters Persephone consistently tore up, the most recent of which was in the trash Orpheus had taken out the day before. Did Persephone go back to the sender’s in the winter because it was his face she saw when she lay awake at night? Or was Orpheus misjudging everything, as he often had a tendency to do? Perhaps the leap was too large to make, comparing the girl at the station to the man Persephone avoided so keenly. Still, even if the emotion was different, the power of the feeling was certainly similar.

Perhaps, when Persephone wasn’t quite so upset with him, he would have to ask her. Maybe not directly about the man, but about the feeling. The feeling he was hesitant to name, because he had never felt it before. He didn’t want to call it anything it wasn’t.

The rest of the day passed mostly uneventfully, though Orpheus got the distinct feeling Persephone was speaking to him as little as she could. She was open about a lot of things, but when she was closed up, she stayed shut tight and she didn’t appreciate anyone prying. It was the first time Orpheus had made that mistake, and he was determined to also make it his last. He may have felt like part of the world now, but the people he knew were few in number and Orpheus didn’t want to lose the few people he counted as friends – or at least close acquaintances. Having spent most of his life without friends, he still didn’t know how long it took before someone crossed that line.

Orpheus was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t notice the time tick by until closing. He was on autopilot, completing his tasks while his mind was working on the song, thinking of the girl, and phrasing and rephrasing questions to Persephone that he was fairly confident he would never be brave enough to ask.

\--

The sun was still up when Persephone finally locked the door to the café, so Orpheus decided to head back down to the train station. He took the metro there, eager to save the time it usually took to walk so he could have a little bit more playing time. He didn’t realize how much he’d been itching to return until he found himself in the same seat as the day before.

The crowd was different, though that was to be expected. There weren’t as many families, and the people walking around the station seemed more tired.

There was no better remedy Orpheus knew of than a little bit of music. It was quiet to start, just as it had been the last time, but he steered away from a lot of the more upbeat songs he enjoyed playing. The people around him – if Orpheus guessed right – didn’t need something that clashed with how they felt and tried to push an emotion on them that they weren’t equipped to handle. They needed something to lightly lift the stress away, if only for a moment. These people, these travelers… it didn’t seem like they needed to dance. They just needed to breathe.

Though he played for the station as a whole, Orpheus couldn’t help but look at the seat where the girl had been sitting the day before. It was empty, and though Orpheus tried to smother it, disappointment burrowed itself in his soul. He knew it was unlikely she’d be back, but he’d still hoped.

There were some faces he recognized, though only a little bit. It was a nice reminder that they were all connected, that the web of people around Orpheus stayed stable even when the world turned, even when it felt like he passed people for just a second and was likely to never see them again. He was reminded of his inquiry into whether or not people passed each other more than once – this, the fact that he remembered some of the faces of the people who came to watch – was proof that sometimes lives collided more than once, though neither party would ever notice unless something extraordinary happened.

Was Orpheus’ playing extraordinary? Surely the people whose eyes he met for a second time in as many days remembered him from the day before, but whether that was because of his habit of dressing with a bandana around his neck or because of the music alone was anybody’s guess. He tugged lightly at the cloth around his neck, shaking his head of the thought. Him playing here was extraordinary for him in and of itself. He wasn’t the type of musician who liked to play for other people until he was sure his work was perfect. He wasn’t the sort who lived for large crowds all the time – he preferred to touch individual lives. He supposed that was what he was doing here, even if he never knew the names of the people who came to watch. Perhaps, if he made a habit of this, he could ask eventually.

Orpheus kept an eye on the crowd forming around him, but he kept scanning for the girl, hoping she might appear as though out of nowhere. Hoping he might see her and ask her name, ask if she’d been listening to the music, if she liked it… was that too forward? Orpheus knew he had a habit of being a lot at once for some people, but he had a hard time concealing himself with easily-packaged small talk. It wasn’t that he didn’t think small talk was a valuable skill, it was just that… when he felt something, it was easier to just say it. That was what he did with his music, after all. He thought of every song like a letter. The people listening – the people he let listen – were just the mailing system. Truly, he sent his letters to the heart of humanity, to every facet of life he believed in. He knew he would just be flattering himself if he believed any of those letters were ever received, but it didn’t hurt to try. That was, after all, how people ended up among the stars. They wrote their own letters to the wonders they beheld, and somehow, the universe read them. Was that not, after all, what a dream was?

If Orpheus’ letters weren’t received by the universe, at the very least they seemed to be received by the people listening. He could see the moment they allowed themselves to smile, and though plenty still dug in their pockets for change (Orpheus had learned to keep his guitar case closed and underneath his chair so it didn’t look like he was asking for donations), they seemed to understand that he was playing for them as much as he was for his own benefit. It was a two way street – his music would mean nothing if there weren’t someone there who was able to enjoy it.

Still, Orpheus kept an eye out for the girl from the day before. He wanted to ask her what she wanted to hear. He wanted to play the type of music that would coax a smile from her, turn her serious, solemn expression into the wondrous one Orpheus himself wore so often.

After a moment, Orpheus stopped playing and looked at the group of people who had gathered. A few began to walk away, but Orpheus cleared his throat. He remembered the day he’d arrived, how the children’s expressions had shifted from quiet, frightened amazement to pure joy.

“I take requests,” he said, as he had said that day, and looked between the faces that had stopped. “I can’t promise I know every song with even a little bit of accuracy, but I’m happy to try, if there’s a song anyone would like to hear.”

It took a long moment before Orpheus saw a small child tug at her mother’s sleeve, whisper something to her, then receive a slight nod. Orpheus waited expectantly as the girl approached him, tucking her dark curls behind her ear and hesitating before she came close enough to speak.

“You don’t have to be frightened,” Orpheus murmured, giving the girl a soft smile. She took a few steps closer, stood on her tiptoes so she could whisper in Orpheus’ ear, then scuttled back to the safety of her mother. He nodded and closed his eyes, remembering the song as he began to play. It was one he hadn’t heard in a while, but though there were a few hiccups he was able to play it relatively smoothly.

In the back of his mind, he wondered why it was children who were willing to ask for requests. What was it that had occurred to make adults so frightened of asking others for the joy they deserved to feel? Orpheus had at least expected one or two particularly pushy people who believed that their music taste was the best. It seemed, to his surprise, that the type of people who stayed to listen to a street musician were the type who were more content to listen than to participate.

He finished the song, and the little girl began applauding. Orpheus felt color rise to his cheeks, but he dipped his head to the girl. Beaming she turned back to wave at him as her mother turned so they wouldn’t be late for their train.

_ That’s why you play _ , Orpheus reminded himself, shaking his head.  _ You play so people are reminded of the beauty of the world, so they can leave smiling and fulfilled. Not so you can find a girl you’ll likely never see again. _

If he’d looked just a little closer, he might’ve seen her peeking around the corner, her back up against one of the central marble pillars so she wouldn’t be seen.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again for your kind comments!! It means the world to know people are reading and enjoying <3

Orpheus made a habit of returning to the train station after every shift when he had the energy left. It had taken Orpheus a few months to become familiar with the patrons of The Lady of Ways Café, but it had taken a much shorter period of time for Orpheus to at least recognize the people who stopped to listen day after day.

The man who wore a trench coat and always had bright colored socks peeking out of his desk job-approved leather shoes always departed at 8:37 so as not to miss the blue line that left at 8:40 on the dot. The lady with her hair pinned up in elaborate curls, with a mark on her makeup where mic tape usually rested left four minutes after, as her train tended to be a few minutes late. She always smiled at him when she left, though Orpheus was half certain she didn’t think he would notice.

Telling the time, in that respect, became easy. Reading the people who came to watch was the trickier part. People’s schedules stayed the same, they all went around the Earth at the same speed and made their routines at the same time every day, but the way people felt was far less static. None of them could plan for what each day brought – the odd challenges or the kindnesses shown by strangers. Orpheus had never been great at telling exactly what someone was feeling, so he couldn’t always suit his music to the mood that would help the most people, but he tried.

There was a man who had watched the first three days who had turned on his heel when Orpheus had played a melancholy song and who had made a point of walking right past him the past two. He always cast a glance back at Orpheus, as though weighing his options. Orpheus couldn’t help but wonder if it was still the one song that had driven him away.

Though he told himself not to, Orpheus still kept his eyes out for the girl. He hadn’t been able to shake the image of her from his mind, no matter how hard he’d tried. He’d even tried to write a song about her, as though that would release her from his thoughts. That hadn’t worked – it instead served to cement her even more firmly into his memory. Orpheus shook his head, instead giving a nod at a small gaggle of tourists who had migrated his way. It was their first time in the city, it seemed, given the tour bus brochures clutched in their hands and the wide eyes with which the youngest of the group was looking around. He was to be part of their experience – he hoped he made a good impression on behalf of the city he had come to call home over the past couple of years.

“A’ight,” Orpheus heard from the back of the small crowd, and he looked up, a smile breaking across his face. He lifted his strumming hand in greeting, meeting Mr. Hermes’ gaze as he finished up the song he was currently in the middle of.

“You’ve taken to that quite nicely,” Hermes commented once the crowd had dispersed and Orpheus finished up with the careful packing of his guitar.

“You made a good suggestion,” Orpheus replied smoothly, settling the guitar case comfortably over his shoulder. He slid his pick in the zippered pocket and straightened up, just as his eyes caught on something. Cropped, dark brown hair reflecting the soft golden lighting of the station lobby turned around the corner towards the metro lines. One hand trailed behind, just for a moment, adorned with several earth-toned beaded bracelets. Orpheus took a step forward almost without realizing what he was doing, but was stopped by the feeling of Hermes’ hand placed gently on his shoulder.

He gave Orpheus a wink that he was going to puzzle over for the next several days and ultimately get no closer to understanding. Orpheus turned back to glance in the direction the girl – he could have sworn it was the same girl – had disappeared in, but took a deep breath and forced himself to walk alongside Hermes instead.

“How was your trip?” Orpheus asked lightly, though from the way the street lights made the lines on Hermes’ face look even harsher, he had a feeling the answer wasn’t going to be favorable.

“There are trips that I enjoy taking, Orpheus, and those I don’t. There was business to take care of.”

“You usually enjoy your longer trips,” Orpheus commented, concerned.

“Yes, I do.” Hermes was silent for a long while before speaking again. “I hadn’t heard the song you were playing when I arrived.”

“You haven’t heard a lot of my songs, Mr. Hermes,” Orpheus admitted, running a hand self-consciously through his hair. “You know I don’t like to share them until they sound right.”

“It was a sad song.”

“Yes.” A pause. “But I like to think of it as full of hope.”

“Hope,” Hermes repeated, tasting the word. He fell silent after that, and Orpheus let the conversation drift away.

The normalcy of life continued with Hermes back, in a way it didn’t when he was gone. Though the routine nature of every day hadn’t paused in Hermes’ absence, it had felt just a little bit heavier. Orpheus fell asleep that night to the almost inaudible sound of Hermes’ pen scratching across pieces of paper, drifting through the too-thin floorboards. Orpheus dreamed of letters that night. Hundreds of thousands of unopened white envelopes of all shapes and sizes, carried by a wind Orpheus could feel pushing him forward as well.

He reached for one of the letters, pushing off the ground and leaping high in the air until his hand caught on one. He tore it open and pulled out a thin, beaded bracelet made of brown leather and dozens of tiny beads in almost every shade of gold or brown Orpheus could imagine. Attached to the bracelet was a neatly folded piece of paper concealing two words:  _ a clue. _ Then the wind stole the bracelet away and Orpheus woke as he tried to stumble after it.

Things were changing. Of that, Orpheus had no doubt whatsoever. He just wished he had a better clue of  _ how _ or  _ why _ , and why his heart railed so much against the idea. He had wanted to follow the girl the night before, but now? Something odd twinged in Orpheus’ heart.

It wasn’t technically time for Orpheus to get up for his shift yet, but he knew he wasn’t getting back to sleep anytime soon. He stood up, quickly got changed, then moved towards the windowsill, dragging his desk just a little bit closer into the light. Normally he kept the area in front of the sill clear so he could play there, but he wasn’t planning on playing this morning.

A blank sheet of paper sat in front of him, and he held the pen over the paper, hesitant. Orpheus liked to pretend he was confident in what he was doing. He liked to pretend that he knew, because that worked when it came to actually building his confidence. At some point it stopped being pretense. Now, though, he was completely out of his depth.

_ Dear Dad. _

Not a bad start, but was it too informal? Orpheus held the pen just to the left of the words, ready to cross them out when he thought better of it. He hadn’t heard a word from his father in the two years since he’d moved. He wondered if he poured over the letters Orpheus had sent his first year away with the same vigor he’d studied Calliope’s poems. Somehow, Orpheus doubted it – he’d never gotten a response, so he stopped writing.

_ I miss you _ .

Orpheus stared at the words. Were they true? Technically, yes. Even if he never planned on going back, even though he’d gotten almost everything he’d wanted out of the city… family was family. It was hard not to feel those ties even if you felt they dragged you down.

_ I have a question you might not want to answer. _

If Orpheus wasn’t going to get a reply anyway, was there any point in trying to avoid being blunt? It was easier to write when Orpheus let himself believe the words would likely never be read. He let his hand fall back to the paper and the words began to seep from the pen.

_ When I left, I never understood why you searched for Mom in the letters and poems she wrote, because she wasn’t in them. She was in the real world, somewhere. I don’t know for sure, but I think I understand now. I think I understand what it’s like to look for someone you can’t find, and even if you could find them, that you can’t have. _

_ I want to know how you knew that you loved my mom. I want to know what you felt when she left, because I… I’m confused. I can see the love you have for her when you look at her poetry, just as I can see the love in young couples watching down the street hand in hand, or old couples sitting and listening to music as they look at each other like they did decades before. I can see it in people that angrily hang up the phone and bury their heads in their hands because they aren’t sure that it’s worth fighting for anymore, and I don’t know what that’s like. I don’t know what any of it’s like, only that it’s beautiful and it’s hard, and I want to have the words for it. _

_ Your words are likely entirely different from mine, but  _ any _ words would be a help at this point. _

_ I’m sorry to bring up old wounds, but there isn’t anyone here I could ask. Also, I know what love is when it isn’t romantic, now more than ever. I’ve known how to love humanity since before I could speak, but before I left home it was always in those abstract terms. Now I know what it’s like to love the man who lives upstairs, and the woman who signs my paycheck, and every person my life brushes against in the street. _

_ I left because I wanted to feel that, but I ignored that I loved you, too. You raised me, and I don’t need you anymore, but that doesn’t mean I want you out of my life entirely. That’s why I wrote, but I got tired of waiting for a letter in response. I never should have given up. _

_ Please write back soon. I may not have an extra room, but if you’d like to visit for a few days, my apartment is always open. _

_ Love, _

_ Orpheus. _

He leaned back, dropping his pen back on the wooden table, and pressed his palms into his forehead. Was he really going to send that? He skimmed over the letter one last time, anxiety rising in his throat. He hadn’t spoken to or seen his father in two years, and he was reaching out because of this? Because he was too scared to ask Persephone about love when she had her own struggles with it?

He stuffed the letter in an envelope and sealed and stamped it before he could change his mind. Ha. If he didn’t send it now, then he would be wasting the postage.

Even so, Orpheus’ heart flip-flopped into his stomach as he walked, dragging lower and lower the closer he got to the mailbox. His heart gave one last spasm of warning as he dropped the letter in before returning, resigned, to its normal place in his chest.

“You’re early,” Persephone commented as Orpheus let himself into the café and held the door open for her. Normally Persephone had already unlocked them when he arrived, but she had just barely arrived as Orpheus turned the corner. She had given him a key so he could help open and close up, but he’d never actually had to use it for opening before.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Orpheus admitted quietly, and Persephone’s eyes narrowed. She was more perceptive than she seemed, especially given her usual state of half-intoxicated.

“What happened?”

“I…” Could Orpheus tell her about the girl? He didn’t even know her name yet. What right did he have to imagine the pain of losing her in his dreams? “I wrote a letter to my dad.”

Persephone raised an eyebrow as she began to set up the cash register. “I thought you were estranged.”

Orpheus could have said the same thing to Persephone about her husband, but he bit his tongue. That was impolite, and he valued Persephone’s friendship as much as he did his role as her employee.

“I know,” he said instead, busying himself with cleaning the floor. “I thought I’d try again.”

Persephone pursed her lips and said nothing, but Orpheus knew they were both thinking of the torn-up letters that Persephone made a point of never reading. It was different, of course, but it was similar in far too many ways. Orpheus couldn’t help but wonder if the first dozen or so letters he’d sent had been torn up too. He’d abandoned his father as surely as Calliope had. The difference was that Orpheus’ dad had wanted to cling to Calliope.

Orpheus shoved the thought to the dark corners of his mind, instead focusing on the daily required tasks to keep the café running.

\--

Once again, Orpheus’ shift was fairly unremarkable. The same people came in and ordered their usual order, and Orpheus spoke with each of them about their lives. He made sure to ask about the daily ins and outs of each customer’s life: how the new baby was doing, if their mother had liked the birthday gift, if they’d figured out how to squirrel-proof their birdfeeders yet, whether they’d managed to ask out the girl from their sociology class. He filed away the answers and refilled coffee, and, as the day grew later, refilled alcohol.

While The Lady of Ways had originally just been open through the early evening, Persephone had decided to increase business by staying open a bit later and implementing a happy hour. Orpheus fondly remembered the way she’d proudly spun around the room the first night they’d stayed open later, pouring them both heaping glassfuls of wine. She’d grinned at him and blasted her favorite music, their own little celebration. Orpheus had tried a sip of the wine and almost immediately spit it out, but even that was now rose-tinted by affection and nostalgia.

The later hours also brought in a new clientele. Despite officially closing at eight, Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos were still gathered at their table at 7:55. Despite the late hour, Atropos was nursing a coffee so dark and caffeinated it gave Orpheus a minor heart attack just making it. He could hear soft giggling coming from their table, and they cast Persephone an evil look when she made it clear that they were closing up on time, as they usually did.

Orpheus didn’t pay them much heed – they’d been through this a few hundred times at least and somehow they still managed to close up at eight exactly every evening. Mainly because when Atropos stood up to leave, her sisters had a tendency to follow without question. While she was often the sister to say the least, it was clear she had the last word.

“Orpheus.” Orpheus glanced over, surprised to hear his name in Atropos’ deep, commanding voice. Unlike the others, she rarely addressed him directly, though this time she had a smirk pinning up the edge of her lips. Orpheus was fairly positive that  _ wasn’t _ a good sign. “The wind is changing.”

Cryptic warning given, whatever it meant, she stood up and walked away, leaving a few dollars’ tip on the table.  _ Look up _ was written on the tip section of the bill, though Orpheus immediately felt foolish when he looked at the ceiling only to find nothing there at all. A metaphor, then. Chills ran down his spine as he remembered the feeling he’d had about the women since he’d first met them – they knew more than anyone else, and they didn’t much feel like sharing that information unless it was to sow doubt or serve their own purposes.

“Time to close up, Orpheus,” Persephone reminded him from behind the counter as she wiped down the last of the coffee stains. There were some that weren’t ever going to come out, but they both gave it a valiant effort at least twice a day.

“Did you know them before they started coming here?” Orpheus questioned, though he wasn’t sure where the curiosity came from.

It seemed as though Persephone wasn’t going to respond for a few moments before she gave a very terse, “Yes.”

Orpheus shifted awkwardly, wishing he could pry for more while also knowing he’d pushed Persephone’s buttons already this week.

After a silence that felt almost suffocating, Persephone tossed her cleaning rag into the pile to be washed and turned to Orpheus. “They’re friends of my husband’s, as much as they can really be  _ friends _ with anybody. Colleagues, maybe. They just like to keep tabs – they like to be in the know. Pay them no heed, Orpheus. Do you promise me that?”

Could Orpheus promise such a thing? He didn’t know, and he didn’t like the idea of breaking his promises. Still, there seemed to be very little harm in this one.

“I promise, Lady Persephone.”

\--

Orpheus went home instead of playing at the train station. It was the first night he’d missed, and though part of him regretted it, he needed the space to just… think. His head felt full, and not in the pleasant way that meant he had plenty of ideas to give. He paced around the room, careful to tread lightly so as not to wake up Hermes if he was attempting to sleep downstairs. The girl. The letter. Persephone. Atropos. There was so much that felt like it was changing that Orpheus felt he couldn’t hold any of it together.

As he did more often than not when troubled, Orpheus reached for his guitar and experimentally played a few chords, As nice as playing at the train station was, he hadn’t had enough time to just play for himself. There was nobody to try to please, no need to read the room to try to figure out which song would fit best. There was just him, the guitar, and the music his heart let loose with little to no interference from his brain. Perhaps that was a fanciful way of seeing it. Then again, Orpheus was nothing if not at least a tiny bit fanciful. He did, after all, believe that music could inspire great changes in people. Why not believe it could be a better reflection of his heart than his facial expressions could ever hope to be? His face could never make people feel the same way he did.

Although helpful, the music didn’t do away with the thoughts warring in Orpheus’ head. They were louder than most thoughts Orpheus was used to, screaming until he acknowledged them. They begged to be fretted over, and no matter how loud Orpheus played (he had given up trying not to wake Hermes), he couldn’t banish them.

On one particularly intense chord, the pick flung itself from Orpheus’ fingers and lodged itself in the crack between the wall and the floorboards. The music ended in a disorderly cacophony, and Orpheus stared at the pick in shock. Quickly, though still with the care a mother would have for a newborn, Orpheus unslung the guitar from his shoulder and laid it out on the bed before kneeling carefully and prying the pick from where it had lodged itself.

The floorboard underneath gave way and Orpheus lurched forward, at first afraid he’d managed to force a hole between his apartment and Hermes’. What he saw instead was somehow more surprising.

Orpheus pried the floorboard off the rest of the way and looked into the hole he’d created. A wooden cigar box laid within, somehow free of cobwebs and dust.

“Hello there,” Orpheus murmured to the box, prying it out of its hole and regarding it with a strange sort of curiosity. It seemed it had been fastened with a makeshift lock, once, though that had long been broken. Orpheus held his breath as though the simple act of taking in air could break it – though whether he was thinking of the box itself or the moment he now found himself in was a mystery even to him. With trembling hands, he dusted off the tiny bit of dust and carefully lifted the lid. Before he had even opened it, Orpheus was aware the box was a story in and of itself. It had come from somewhere and belonged to someone. Someone had considered it important enough to hide. Was it improper to open it?

Before he could second guess himself, Orpheus opened the lid the rest of the way. His fingers brushed over the objects resting flush with the sides, taking in the small treasure he’d just uncovered.

There were small pressed blossoms at the top of the box, sitting on top of a carefully folded piece of paper. Orpheus couldn’t quite identify what they were, but he made a mental note to describe them to Persephone when he went in to work the next day. She would know. Where Orpheus’ interest outside of work lay in music, Persephone’s lay in botany. Orpheus sometimes wondered why she never closed the café so she could work in a field that suited her better. Not that he’d ask her – she loved The Lady of Ways, and Orpheus did as well. He didn’t really want to have to go out and look for a new job.

Setting aside the flowers as delicately as he could, Orpheus began to peer at the rest of the items inside, spread out neatly along the wooden bottom. He was careful as he looked through them, guilt itching at his heart at the thought of actually touching any of them. They weren’t his to go through, despite having found them in his apartment.

The letters in particular – if that’s what they were – Orpheus didn’t dare unfold, instead glancing at what else was there. A couple of foreign coins, as shiny as though they’d been newly minted. A pack of playing cards tied together with an old, almost broken rubber band. A golden chain, a white chess piece. It was carefully taken care of, loved by whoever had left it there. Orpheus felt a pang in his heart - did the person who lived here before miss it? Had they thought of it since they’d left? Or had they left it on purpose? Given how nicely everything was arranged in the box, Orpheus had a hard time believing someone could have left it if they still remembered it was there. 

Memory was a funny thing, though. When Orpheus had left home, he had thought he’d brought everything. It wasn’t until much later that he’d realized he’d left behind some of the things that had meant the world to him when he was little. Notebooks full of his first song lyrics, for example. The string of his first guitar that he’d kept tied to his bed frame. Things he hadn’t thought about in years, but that he had saved for a reason. 

Orpheus closed the box gently, making sure not to crush any of the delicate flowers with the lid. 

_ How grateful would you be if someone returned that notebook to you, or the guitar string? _ Orpheus asked himself, lightly running a hand over the carved design on the top of the box.  _ How grateful would you be if someone were to return something you’d forgotten? _

There were ways to find out who lived in the apartment before Orpheus moved in, but was it worth it to try to track them down? What if they’d left the box because it was full of memories they didn’t want anymore?

“No.” The word, spoken aloud, was enough to shock Orpheus back into reality. He couldn’t decide not to try because there was the  _ possibility  _ it would do more harm than good. 

If he found the person the box belonged to and they appreciated Orpheus’ interference… then maybe this was a sign. He didn’t know what, exactly, he believed in, but part of him believed in fate. Perhaps this was what Atropos had been warning him about (though how she knew such a thing might happen was beyond Orpheus). 

Things were changing. Orpheus couldn’t help that. What he could do was control his own actions. He could choose to help people as the world changed - whether they noticed his touch or not. 

Asking Hermes was the logical first step, though Orpheus found he wasn’t sure he wanted Hermes to know about his plan until he’d decided whether or not to go through with it. He’d already started playing in public on Hermes’ advice, and the idea of Hermes knowing about him trying to come out of his shell a little more in other ways was... frightening. The last thing Orpheus wanted to do was disappoint Hermes. Hermes believed in him so thoroughly for reasons he didn’t quite understand, and he wanted to prove he was worthy of that. 

Hesitantly, Orpheus cracked open the box one more time. With almost shaking fingers, he removed the paper underneath the flowers and opened it just enough to see who it was addressed to. 

_ Dearest P, _ it read, though an initial didn’t do much to help clarify things. It wasn’t written in a hand Orpheus had ever seen. His eyes skimmed down to the bottom, where the author had signed off with  _ Love, --. _

It wasn’t even clear if the letter had ever been delivered. There was nothing to go on. Even if Orpheus knew whether P had owned the box or had merely been the intended recipient, he would have had something. He murmured something unpleasant under his breath, immediately grateful there was nobody around to hear. Perhaps he would have to ask Hermes after all, in the morning. 

Until then, Orpheus decided he might as well make use of the box while he had it. 

Ever so carefully - as carefully as he treated his own guitar, as this was an object that very easily could have held the same meaning for its original owner - Orpheus placed the box on the windowsill and propped it open next to his songbook. 

His life had become intertwined with this stranger’s, and whoever the box belonged to had no idea. Not yet, anyway. 

Orpheus swallowed hard, drowning in the feeling that knowledge gave him. This person had touched his life, and if Orpheus didn’t succeed in tracking them down, they would never know. Even if he did find them, even if he did return the box… Orpheus didn’t need that recognition. 

_ Oh. _ Surprised at the feeling of wetness on his cheeks, Orpheus lifted a hand to wipe away the tears. Whoever had left this box had no idea what an effect it might have. Orpheus could see the person’s heart in this box, the things that had mattered enough to save and hide. Claiming credit for returning it would defeat the whole point. 

The word was vast and wide, and there was little to nothing Orpheus could do about that. His own world was much smaller, but it was still a whole world. If a stranger could shake Orpheus’ world without even knowing it, how beautiful might it be to shake a stranger’s world? How beautiful to remind them the power they had to touch the lives around them without needing anything in return other than the magnification of their heartbeat in their chest, the feeling that they  _ did good _ and that’s enough?

That was part of the song. The song he couldn’t write. The magnitude of knowing a stranger and giving them back their heart. 

It was easier, Orpheus would realize later, to love a stranger when you knew you wanted nothing back. 


	5. Chapter 5

It seemed to Orpheus that every attempt he made to find the owner of the box led to a dead end. Though Orpheus was on friendly terms with the others who lived in the building, there was a lot of movement in and out. The apartment right next door to Orpheus had been occupied by at least three different tenants in Orpheus’ two years there. The chances that anyone else in the building had been there for the tenant before Orpheus were low. 

Shaking off the thought, Orpheus exited the apartment, making sure to pause and lock the door on his way out. After double checking he’d locked it properly, he gave a firm nod and began to make his way down the stairs. 

“You’re looking for someone.” The voice surprised Orpheus about one level down and he turned, surprised to find a woman watching him. Her eyes, a warm amber, seemed to see Orpheus in a way he wasn’t used to being recognized. 

“Yes,” he admitted. 

“Two someones,” the woman added, her lips twitching up into a smile. It was impossible to tell how old she was. She could have been anywhere from a year or two younger than Orpheus to well into her thirties. Something about her just felt  _ comfortable. _ Despite the chance of being late for work, Orpheus nodded. 

Without thinking about it, he took a few steps closer to the woman. Her smile seemed more genuine up close, the dimples creasing her face making her seem younger than she probably was. 

“I can help you find one of them.”

“Which one?” Orpheus, despite his best efforts, couldn’t quite keep the desperation out of his voice. 

“One of them isn’t mine to help you find.”

“The girl.”

The woman dipped her head in affirmation. 

“You know who left the box.”

“Yes.” Her voice wavered as she said it, like a candle about to go out if the wind blew just a little bit harder. 

Orpheus watched her for another couple of seconds, waiting for the woman to elaborate. After what felt like a very long pause, Orpheus shook his head slightly. “I’m afraid I don’t know who you are.”

“No,” the woman mused, her tone distant. “I don’t suppose you would know, would you?” Her smile reappeared and she held out a hand. “I forget, sometimes, that people may not know me as well as I know them. My name is Hestia.”

Orpheus reached out to shake Hestia’s hand, though he still wasn’t sure what to think of her. Her hand was pleasantly warm and she gave a soft smile and a shake that wasn’t as firm as it was comforting. As though a handshake truly was the cousin of an embrace. “My name is-”

“Orpheus, I know.” Hestia took her hand back and glanced up at the stairs. “You live the floor above me. I’m Hermes’ neighbor. And you seem to forget, at times, that most of the building can hear you when you play.”

Orpheus reddened. “I… I’m so-”

“If you’re going to apologize, save your breath. I don’t mind.” The smile that accompanied her words and the lack of ire in her tone was enough to put Orpheus at ease. “You play very well.”

“Thank you,” Orpheus murmured, brow creasing. “I…”

“You wish to reunite the owner with their box, yes?”

“Yes.”

“I seem to have forgotten his name, but I remember his heart. You’ll find him working not far from someplace you’re afraid of going.” Hestia’s eyes gained a far-away light. “He was kind. He burned brightly, as most folks do when given the chance. As you do. His flame was dimmed by a man who makes candied promises and whispers half-truths.” Hestia lifted her amber gaze to meet Orpheus, and it seemed to flare a little brighter, sparking as it met his. “He’ll be grateful if you find him.”

“I… I’ll do my best,” Orpheus replied, though he was suddenly filled with far more questions than he’d had when he set out.

“And Orpheus?”

“Yes, Ms. Hestia?” The woman gave a small smile at the honorific, as though it was a novelty to her.

“You’re welcome to sit by my hearth at any time. It is always a home for the lost, should you lose sight of where to turn.”

“I’d like that,” Orpheus replied, returning Hestia’s smile with an uncertain one of his own.

“You’re invited to dinner tonight,” Hestia added off-hand, just as Orpheus had turned to leave. “At eight thirty. I’d be delighted if you could make it.”

\--

“Chrysanthemums,” Persephone murmured under her breath, turning the delicately dried flowers around in her fingertips. “They’ve been well preserved,” she added, tone softer than Orpheus thought he had ever heard it. Persephone could be a lot of things. Confident, witty, abrasive, at times, but Orpheus would rarely describe her as gentle. Still, that was what she seemed to be as she handled the flowers Orpheus had brought with him.

“Don’t… don’t some flowers have meaning?”

Persephone gave a tight smile. “Yes. Chrysanthemums mean joy in spite of impending winter.” The heaviness in her tone betrayed that she felt far more deeply about the little flowers than she let on. They were personal to her, though Orpheus didn’t know why. Now wasn’t the time to ask. Whatever it was, it would have to wait until Persephone felt like being open about it, which might take… well, forever. She tended to live in the moment, making the most out of everything she had without giving much of a thought towards the past or the future. Though Orpheus himself may not have known what it meant to live that way, he knew better than to remind Persephone of the things she avoided thinking about.

It was odd, Orpheus thought, that people could live such different ways. He had grown up thinking about the future, imagining himself as a part of it, thinking of everything he could do to make the future better than either the past or the present. He wondered how many days he had lost to that mindset. He wondered how many memories Persephone had abandoned to her own way of thinking.

“Thank you, Lady Persephone,” Orpheus said, tucking the dried chrysanthemums carefully back into the baggie he’d carried them in with. He placed that back in his guitar case, then straightened up and glanced around the room to assess what tasks needed to be done while they still had a break from customers. He spotted a crisp white envelope on top of the mail stack, curiously not yet ripped in two and tossed aside. Perhaps Persephone hadn’t thought about it yet, or perhaps she was waiting for the trash to be emptied before she did so. Secretly, Orpheus hoped she was planning to read it.

There was much Orpheus didn’t understand, things that hadn’t been shared with him despite his relationship with Persephone and Hermes. He didn’t know much about Persephone’s husband, and though he wished he did so he could try to help, he had a feeling he couldn’t make things much better even if he wanted to. Some things were beyond him. Sometimes the web he saw between people really did trap flies and draw them in. Sometimes, the strands just frayed. Orpheus wished he knew which it was this time.

Orpheus looked up as the door opened, surprised out of his thoughts. It was unusual for Hermes not to be the first one through the doors, but it was even more unusual for all three sisters – Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos – to arrive at exactly the same time. Usually when they left they were together, but Orpheus had always assumed that Atropos worked through most of the day. It seemed he was wrong this time.

With a sly smile, Atropos took her usual seat and raised a brow at Orpheus as though challenging him to comment on her arrival at such an unusual time of day. Orpheus kept his mouth shut. When he looked back over, he found Atropos’ long fingers shuffling a deck of unusually colored cards. Persephone, it seemed, had noticed as well. She made a face, rolled her eyes, and continued making Clotho’s coffee. They were both used to Atropos’ interest in tarot, though Persephone had once warned Orpheus against taking a reading from her.

“Orpheus!” Almost as though his thoughts had summoned Atropos’ attention, he heard his name from her smirking lips.

“What can I get you this morning, Atropos? Black coffee, per usual?”

“Aren’t you at least a little bit curious?” Atropos asked, fanning out her cards.

“I prefer the future to be a surprise,” Orpheus replied uncomfortably, casting a nervous glance back at Persephone.

“I don’t think you do,” Lachesis commented, making a point not to stifle her yawn.

“You know how every day is going to start, and you know how it’s going to end,” Clotho added, giving Orpheus a humorless grin. “Wouldn’t it be  _ fun _ to see if it ever changes?”

“He knows it will change, Clotho,” Atropos chided, her smile far more deadly than Clotho’s. “He’s just afraid of how.”

“Well, poet, do you think you can control how it will change?” Lachesis asked, leaning forward. Orpheus found she was far more intimidating when she cast her full attention on him.

“Harassing my employee again, are we?” The tension that had been building up in Orpheus’ shoulders released at the sound of Persephone’s voice from right behind him. “Unfortunately, I can’t stand for that in my café. He has work to do, don’t you Orpheus?”

Grateful for the excuse, Orpheus skittered away back to the kitchen. It took a few moments of leaning against the wall and paying close attention to his breathing for Orpheus’ thoughts to gather themselves. The women seemed more… intense today than they usually did, though Orpheus couldn’t quite place why or how. By the time he’d gathered himself enough to step back into the dining room, Persephone was joking with Clotho and Hermes had taken his usual seat near the back.

With nobody else yet in the café to serve, Orpheus felt comfortable sliding into the seat across from Hermes and helping himself to a cup of Hermes’ favored Earl Grey.

“Good morning, Mr. Hermes,” Orpheus greeted quietly, grateful the outside heat hadn’t penetrated the café. It made warming his hands with the tea a pleasant experience rather than a painful one.

“Good morning, Orpheus.” As usual, Hermes’ tone was measured and careful, and Orpheus felt himself melting into it. It was easy to forget about the unsettling aspects of the morning when Hermes was there to cast his warmth around Orpheus. It made sense that he and Hestia were friends.

“I met Ms. Hestia this morning,” he commented quietly, eyes lifted to see what Hermes’ response would be. A smile pressed at the side of Hermes’ lips, but he didn’t let it lift the whole way.

“I’ve told you stories about her.”

Orpheus frowned, trying to remember. He was certain he had never heard the name, but Hermes was well traveled and had a great deal of stories. It was entirely possible he had told Orpheus one or two or twenty involving the woman and Orpheus just hadn’t connected the dots.

“She seems kind,” he admitted. “I feel bad I didn’t know her… she clearly knew me.”

“Hestia makes a point of knowing everyone. She really is the heart of the building, Orpheus.” Though Hermes was always incredibly careful with his wording, even Orpheus couldn’t miss the twinge of disappointment in his tone. Hermes knew the names and stories of everyone who shared their building. Orpheus, in spite of his fascination with the connection between himself and every stranger near him, had neglected to introduce himself, even when Hermes had politely requested he do so. It had slipped Orpheus’ mind, and it was no excuse that Hermes had suggested it in the middle of one of Orpheus’ bursts of inspiration.

“I’ve never seen her in the halls before,” Orpheus replied, but he knew it was a flimsy excuse. 

“She rarely leaves her apartment. You’re lucky she stopped you this morning, if that’s indeed what happened.”

Orpheus frowned, taking a sip of his tea. Still too hot. And he definitely forgot to mix a sugarcube in. How anybody drank  _ anything _ caffeinated completely black was a mystery Orpheus wasn’t sure he wanted to solve. 

“She offered to help me with something.”

Hermes raised an eyebrow, but didn’t press. It was something Orpheus could never quite decide if he liked about Mr. Hermes. He only gave small pushes, when he felt the time was right. Sometimes Orpheus needed a push a little more often. Still… Hermes’ suggestion that he play at the station had been a push, and Orpheus was still working out how to properly thank him for that one. 

The bell attached to the front door jangled, announcing the arrival of another customer. Giving Hermes an apologetic smile, Orpheus pushed his cup to the side and stood up to greet the new arrival. 

“Orpheus?”

The musician turned his head to look back at Hermes. 

“Whatever you’re up to, be careful. You may end up impacting more lives than you mean to.”

\--

Persephone allowed Orpheus to leave before The Lady of Ways technically closed. Wednesday nights tended to be slow anyway, and the more problematic customers (Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos, though Persephone never  _ officially _ acknowledged she was referring to them) had departed just after breakfast. 

It was barely five in the evening when Orpheus found himself back in his familiar seat at the train station. 

“You weren’t here yesterday,” he heard someone comment, and looked up, trying to find the source of the voice. Though he recognized many of the faces around him, he couldn’t immediately identify anyone who may have commented. Shaking off the thought, he pulled his guitar out of his case and began to quietly tune it. 

Already, a small crowd was beginning to gather. Though it was earlier than he usually played, it seemed word travelled fast. Or perhaps people were just curious about the strange man with the guitar. He gave a small smile to the people that had gathered, his eyes never lingered on any one face for more than a moment. He was looking for someone, though part of him was almost convinced she’d just been a figment of his imagination. 

Orpheus let his eyes drift closed once the instrument was perfectly in tune, then began to play. This time, he wasn’t focusing on the emotions of the crowd as much as he was the music that he knew he needed to play for himself. 

It took a few minutes of playing with the sun warm against his back where it streamed in from the windows for him to adjust to playing for people again. It had only been a day, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that a lot had changed. 

At the end of the first song, he blinked his eyes back open, squinting against the sudden influx of light. He forgot what it was like, playing there before the sun had begun to set. He’d only done it the once. 

The truth was, he had an ulterior motive for using his time off to visit the station. The girl who’d stayed to watch had been in her seat early, not late. There was no reason to believe she’d have waited for him when he didn’t show up at the same time the second day. 

_ How do you know she wasn’t just passing through town? _ The doubts hissed in Orpheus’ head. 

_ Because she went to the metro lines, not the Amtrak, _ he argued, trying to push the thoughts out of his mind. They continued to cling there anyway. 

When his eyes adjusted to the light, Orpheus peered through the crowd one more time, disappointment settling in his stomach. It had been a long shot anyway. The music he was playing turned melancholy, and a few of the viewers turned away. 

As the second song finished, Orpheus let his fingers relax on the frets as the final notes hung in the air. He sent the gathered crowd a tight smile and bent his neck back down to get his fingers back into place when he thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye. He hadn’t thought anyone was behind him when he’d sat down, but when he turned, his heart stopped. 

There she was, seated backwards on one of the waiting room chairs, her arms folded over the back and her chin resting on her forearms. She was so close Orpheus was fairly confident she could hear his heart attempting to burst out of his chest to join hers. 

There were thousands of words that came to mind, thousands of things Orpheus could say, but all of them failed him just before they could leave his lips. 

She cocked an eyebrow, something unreadable in the depths of her dark eyes. 

Orpheus froze for just a moment, worried that anything he could say would just send her running again. He held her inquisitive gaze for just a heartbeat too long before immediately looking away and digging in his guitar case for something important. 

Heart racing, he pulled his notebook out and placed it on the floor in front of him, letting it naturally fall open to what he had begun to think of as the problem page. It didn’t seem like a problem anymore with the girl close enough that if he reached out, he could graze her cheek with his fingertips. 

When Orpheus looked back up, she was still holding his gaze. He wanted to talk to her, wanted to ask her name and invite her to his apartment. He wanted to share his life with this girl who didn’t feel like a stranger. This girl whose heart felt like a twin to his own. 

He didn’t speak, not yet. Instead he let his eyes drift down momentarily to the notebook as he reminded himself where to start. The song wasn’t finished yet, not by a longshot. It wasn’t fit to be shared. 

Yet the crowd seemed to melt away as he played those opening chords, as the guitar strings transformed into the strings of his own heart. 

There was only Orpheus, the girl, and the song that meant everything. 

Orpheus didn’t dare look at her for the first several moments he spent playing. He just closed his eyes and let the music softly overcome him, let his fingers play what they wanted, even if it deviated from the original plans for the songs. This… this was the feeling he had been trying to capture. He could feel it blazing in his heart even if it was impossible to distill into concrete sounds. What he played was just an approximation of it, though when his eyes met the girl’s all thoughts flew from his head. His hands played what his heart instructed them to, and when he opened his mouth to sing, it was pure feeling – words that filled the moment but made no lasting impression on his mind. The song in its perfect, distilled form, was just a taste of what it could be. It was insubstantial, ephemeral, but it was enough.

The girl was even more beautiful up close, Orpheus noted. She was slowly twisting one of her rings around her finger, her eyes locked on Orpheus and his guitar. Her eyes… her eyes were amazing. It felt like they were hiding something, but they also felt like a field of flowers on a warm summer day, the whisper of butterfly wings brushing across a fingertip, warm and bright but not  _ too _ warm. Part of Orpheus wanted to reach out to brush a stray strand of hair behind her ear, but that would require taking a hand away from his guitar. He wanted to keep playing, if that was the only thing that kept her here instead of letting her flee towards the trains that were waiting to take her out of arm’s reach.

The song was for her, Orpheus realized. Maybe not forever, maybe not intentionally, but for now, it was hers. It was the song that defined the tie between Orpheus’ heart and the heart of a stranger. Or rather, someone he wished wasn’t a stranger at all. He gave her a small smile in between lines, and though she didn’t return it, Orpheus could see her lips almost twitch up. She looked… relaxed. Intrigued. Or perhaps neither of those things – Orpheus couldn’t tell with her, and wishful thinking wasn’t making it any easier.

After an eternity and no time at all, the song came to a natural pause. Orpheus lifted his face once again to meet the girl’s eyes. She hadn’t turned away, much to Orpheus’ surprise. She hadn’t left like she’d done the week before. She just was watching him, her chin now propped up on one hand. He could see her bracelets better that way, and he had the distinct feeling that they went along with the image she presented quite well. He wanted to know the stories behind how she’d gotten them.

“Hi,” he said instead, once the music had died down. His heart was racing and his mind supplied a million words at once. “I’m Orpheus.”

The girl raised a sharp eyebrow in response to being spoken to, but she smiled, to Orpheus’ delight. Silence fell for several long seconds, and for a moment he was worried she wasn’t going to reply. He’d all but forgotten about the crowd of people watching, waiting for the next song.

“I’m-” The girl’s name was lost as the clock in the station began to toll. One. Two. Three…. Eight. Orpheus’ eyes widened. He had barely half an hour to get home, and he was too far to walk it in that time. He was almost positive Hermes would be at Hestia’s dinner, and he’d already expressed his disappointment that Orpheus hadn’t made more of an effort to get to know his neighbor…

“I’m sorry!” He called to the girl, grabbing his guitar case and taking off at a dead run towards the metro. He knew which line he had to take, he knew which train, and he saw the doors open. Heart pounding, he sprinted the rest of the way, taking in a deep breath when he realized he’d made it. He’d be home on time.

“Orpheus!” The musician turned at the sound of his name, just in time to see the girl – he still didn’t know her name – running towards him and holding out something. No, not just  _ something _ . His songbook. Barely registering it, Orpheus pushed forward only for the doors to close right in front of him, barring him from running back to retrieve it. The train began to move and though Orpheus quickly made his way towards the back of the compartment, all he could see was the girl slowly fading into the distance, clutching his songs – his heart – close to her chest. Then the train rounded the corner and all Orpheus could see out the window was black.


	6. Chapter 6

There was an emptiness in Orpheus’ heart without the book he’d poured hours into sitting comfortably in his guitar case. Though he’d managed to wrangle his guitar back into it, it felt lighter without the book. He’d written songs in it since he was old enough to understand how to string words into lyrics, how to put those lyrics to a melody. Of course there were hundreds of other songs he’d written scattered around his apartment in dozens of other notebooks, but that one was the  _ important _ one. The one that contained the song he’d been trying to solve since he first understood that humans were fundamentally connected in ways his small mind couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

The hollow feeling was a strange contrast to the euphoria he still felt in the aftermath of playing the song how it could be, just once. It still wasn’t finished, but in that moment it was far closer than it had ever been before. It wasn’t just about the song, though. It was about the girl, the girl whose name he still didn’t know, the girl who had waited for him in a train station for who knew how long just to hear him play, the girl who had known when he’d missed a day. It was almost too much to think about at once. It meant something, Orpheus could feel it. The act of her waiting for him, listening unseen… warmth bubbled up in Orpheus’ chest in a feeling he didn’t quite have the words for.

There were no words for it, but there was a sort of music. Smiling to himself like a schoolgirl in love, Orpheus reached for his book to record the notes in his head before they dissipated with the feeling.  _ Oh. Right. _ The girl had the notebook. The thought was frightening. Not because Orpheus didn’t trust her to take good care of it, but because he wasn’t sure he was so ready to be  _ known _ . He may have played a song for her that nobody else had ever heard, but there were songs in there that he’d still rather keep locked up tight in his heart.

The ride home felt longer than Orpheus expected. He watched the others in his car interact, some scooting over to avoid making accidental contact with the person next to them, while others tuned out the people around them with earbuds displayed prominently in their ears. It felt like a loss, in a way. Then again, Orpheus was the weirdo who wouldn’t mind just striking up a conversation on public transportation if he ever found someone who seemed to draw him in. He preferred to be a casual observer of it all rather than a participant.

That was the difference, he realized after a moment. He had spent so much of his life wishing to be a part of things, but the song was still just an observation. It wasn’t a living experience like it had been when he’d played for the girl. Heat rushed to his cheeks. He’d tried to become a part of it all, he’d tried to spin his own portion of the web, and then he’d fled. What was the notebook now? A clue? Even if he did trust the girl – and he did, for reasons he couldn’t explain – he couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t want her to have the book. He wanted to share his life, his thoughts, his heart with her, but not like this. This was like being laid bare, with no ability to pull back. The girl had an advantage here. Orpheus may have felt like he knew her, somehow, but she had the opportunity to  _ really  _ know him.

\--

“Orpheus?” Hestia’s gentle voice reached him a few moments later than it probably should have, and Orpheus glanced up. He’d gotten lost in the slightly flickering flame of one of the candles placed in the center of the table. It moved with the air currents in the room, but also tended to lean away from whoever was talking. It reminded Orpheus of how impossible it was to exist without touching, even indirectly, the world around you. That seemed more important now than ever, though Orpheus found it difficult to articulate why.

“Sorry,” Orpheus murmured, moving to reach for the bowl of peas Hestia was gesturing at.

“Head in the clouds, that one,” Hermes commented, though there wasn’t nearly as much admonition in his tone as Orpheus had expected. If anything, he seemed worried.

Orpheus gave a sheepish smile and took a bite of potatoes that he wasn’t quite hungry for.

“Thank you again for the invitation, Ms. Hestia,” he murmured, forcing his eyes up to meet Hestia’s gaze.

“Please, child, if you’re going to use an honorific, it’s Miss.” Coming from anyone else the correction might have seemed uncomfortable, perhaps even condescending, but Hestia had a way with her tone that put Orpheus at ease. That was no easy task given the warring emotions he felt, with no discernible outlet until Orpheus found a way to acquire another book. He’d have to stop upstairs as soon as there was an excuse to leave. It wouldn’t be the same, but it would be something.

“Alright, Miss Hestia,” Orpheus returned, giving her a polite dip of his head before turning back towards his food. He slid a bit of mashed potato across his plate with his fork, wishing he had enough of an appetite to eat it. It really did look good.

“Orpheus, if it wouldn’t be imposing upon your time, I’d like to request a song,” Hestia spoke, standing up and clearing her plate gracefully. Though Orpheus followed her into the kitchen to try to help clean dishes, she shrugged him off and waved him back in the direction of the only slightly-separate dining room. Though Hestia’s apartment was no larger than Orpheus’, she had it organized in such a way that it felt as though there were very distinct rooms.

“I’d be happy to,” Orpheus replied, his breath exiting his tightened chest with relief. He’d been planning on playing to clear his mind as soon as he was free to do so, and he felt slightly less like he was annoying the whole building when he was invited to do it. Pleased, Hestia finished up the dishes before lighting a small fire and settling back onto the couch. Orpheus was impressed she had found a way to get a fireplace here, but he wasn’t going to question the logistics of it. Despite the summer heat, sitting by a warm fire managed to melt away at least a few of Orpheus’ concerns. It may not have solved any of the situations Orpheus had gotten himself into with both the stranger’s box and his own notebook, but it served to make him feel at least a little less alone in handling both. Even if neither Hestia nor Hermes knew all the details.

Quietly, at first, Orpheus began to play.

While Hestia and Hermes were very different to play for than the train station crowd, Orpheus found he enjoyed it more. For one, it was a distraction from everything he didn’t want to think about. Here, he got to share only what he wanted with them, and they responded kindly.

“I’ve heard you through the walls,” Hestia commented after one song, throwing the words over her shoulder as she moved into the kitchen. “I didn’t imagine it could be much better in person, but it seems I’ve been proven wrong.” Orpheus sent a small smile her way that wasn’t received until she re-emerged holding a pack of marshmallows and three metal rods. Orpheus’ smile widened into a full on grin, and Hestia gave him a wink. “No point in having a fireplace if you can’t make s’mores.”

Orpheus nodded at that, then shifted so that the three of them could better access the fireplace. Hermes chuckled under his breath and graciously took one of the rods, as well as a small handful of jumbo marshmallows.

Though Orpheus kept playing as Hermes and Hestia began to roast their first marshmallows, he soon set his guitar aside and joined them at the fireplace, taking care to roast his  _ just so _ , where the outside was golden and the inside was soft and melty. Hermes seemed to favor marshmallows blackened by a couple seconds on fire, though Orpheus couldn’t quite understand why.

“Careful,” Hestia warned quietly, one brow raised curiously as Hermes let another one of the marshmallows catch on fire. “We  _ are _ indoors. Fire spreads easily.” She pulled her own marshmallow out of the fire, satisfied with its golden-brown finish, just barely singed at the top.

“I know,” Hermes replied patiently, reaching for a graham cracker from the stack Orpheus hadn’t noticed until just that moment. He was less interested in s’mores than he was the marshmallow part of the whole thing. Honestly, he’d rather just eat them plain.

Although Orpheus didn’t quite understand how Hestia had gotten away with having a fireplace given that Orpheus was fairly certain the contract he’d signed had specified no  _ candles _ , he wasn’t exactly inclined to question it when it meant he’d gotten free marshmallows. Besides, it seemed to suit Hestia. She belonged in a proper home, with a fireplace and large windows, and a living room where people could gather and truly appreciate each other.

Was what they had now truly that different, though? Orpheus was of the mind that it was not. He may not have known Hestia particularly well, but he did know Hermes, and he felt comfortable here. He didn’t feel like a stranger anymore, particularly not as Hestia praised his music and referred to the songs she had liked by name. Orpheus couldn’t quite recall giving her the names, but he supposed he must have. Hestia was more observant, it seemed, than most of the people Orpheus was used to dealing with. She had a folder in her mind for every person her life touched, and she kept the folders well-tended. Orpheus was certain that he would never be able to keep so many things straight about so many different people. He was better at large, universal emotions than he was details. While Orpheus was fascinated in the human experience, how every person was part of the same world, Hestia seemed focused on the minutiae of each individual life. He could admire her for that.

The moon was rising higher and higher into the sky, and the sky growing midnight-black outside the windows of Hestia’s cozy apartment, drawing Orpheus’ attention away from his feelings about the evening.

“I should go for the night,” Orpheus murmured to Hestia, moving to the sink to rinse off his s’mores stick before Hestia could do it for him. “My shift starts early tomorrow.”

“You’re welcome back any time, Orpheus,” Hestia reminded him, crossing the apartment so she could hold the door open.

“Thank you for everything, Miss Hestia.” Orpheus hesitated for a moment before he threw his arms around Hestia and held her close, taking in the sweet scent of marshmallow and firewood. She stiffened for just a moment as though the hug was unexpected before she slowly returned the embrace. Though Orpheus couldn’t remember what a hug from a mother was like, he had a feeling it must have been something akin to this.

\--

With no solid plan to get his songbook back, the girl being absent from the station the next day, Orpheus threw himself into finding out who the box belonged to. He didn’t have much to go on, though he knew Hestia knew him well enough to give him clues that were accurate. There weren’t many places he was afraid of going, though if he wasn’t careful, the train station was going to become one of them. As curious as he was about the girl, as much as he wanted to speak to her, he was terrified of what she must thing of him after reading through the book. He was terrified she would find his desperation to capture shared humanity pitiful. He was terrified she wouldn’t understand, he was terrified she  _ would _ understand.

He wasn’t thinking about the book. He had to remind himself of that several times as he folded open a mostly unused notebook and jotted down the few ideas he had. Orpheus didn’t like being afraid. There were things he was certainly afraid of that he didn’t admit to himself or anybody else, but he didn’t think there were  _ places _ . Unless Hestia was referring to home. Even then, it wasn’t fear keeping Orpheus away as much as it was uncertainty, and the knowledge that where he was now was better in every possible way.

Orpheus wasn’t going to get anywhere just sitting where he was. He knew that, he knew that ideas required a new perspective, and he’d been staring at the same blank sheet of paper for far too long. Orpheus stretched his long arms high above his head and forced himself to his feet. Figuring it out by staring at it was, unfortunately, not going to work.

_ Might as well check the mail _ , Orpheus thought to himself, then smiled. It was the sort of smile to be shared with someone who was in on a shared secret joke, only this time Orpheus was the only one aware of the joke.

“Post office, in case Dad’s written back,” he wrote on the list, chuckling quietly to himself. Had he jumped in too fast? Undoubtedly, but he wasn’t exactly used to weighing his options before he did something. While not reckless, he was impulsive, and sending the letter to his father had been an impulse. He didn’t think his father was actually going to respond. After all, how many letters had he ignored?

Those thoughts kept Orpheus busy as he made his way down the stairs, taking them two at a time for the fun of it. It paid to be childish, sometimes, Orpheus figured. He slid the shiny key into his mailbox and turned it, surprised by how much mail was waiting for him. Then again, it had probably been almost a month since he’d checked it. Embarrassment rushing through his veins and heating his face, he flipped through to make sure there wasn’t anything important he had missed.

What he found wasn’t at all what he had expected. There were the usual bills and advertisements, a few letters from people he’d exchanged addresses with during his first several months in the city. He had only met them once, but he’d spoken to them and made connections he didn’t want to lose. Though the letters between them were often infrequent, they made Orpheus smile every time he saw one, and gave him a feeling of warmth when he had the chance to write one in response. What caught his eye this time, however, was still a hand addressed envelope, but not in the familiar hand of one of Orpheus’ many pen pals.

Heart racing, Orpheus flipped over the envelope to read the return address, and felt his breath catch in his throat.

In Orpheus’ humble opinion, the postal service was far too quick for its own good. He hadn’t thought his letter had even  _ reached _ his dad yet, let alone reached him in time to deliver a response. He hadn’t had the chance to mentally prepare himself, especially given he’d been convinced he’d not receive an answer at all.

Orpheus’ ascent back to his apartment was slow, his steps uncertain as he read over the front and back of the envelope for about the fiftieth time. Perhaps  _ this _ was what Persephone felt every time one of her crisp white envelopes arrived. Perhaps there was the feeling of anticipation, of wanting to open it, accompanied by the acrid scent of dread. What it contained could be terrible. There was no way of knowing, and perhaps ignoring it was easier than actually splitting the envelope open to read the words inside.

When Orpheus finally made it back to his apartment, he placed the envelope carefully on the countertop and proceeded to pretend as though it wasn’t there while he opened the rest of the mail. He didn’t do a very good job of it – there were numerous glances in the direction of the envelope, and more than one curious venture over to the countertop before he changed his mind and sat back down in his chair.

He would open it, eventually. He owed his dad that courtesy, especially after taking the time to write a letter in the first place. The thing was, he wasn’t as sure now as he was when he sent it. Not since the girl had taken his songbook and disappeared again. Which wasn't exactly fair to her, given she’d tried to return it, but still. Orpheus buried his head in his hands and shook his head. He didn’t want to know what love was like - not anymore. He was still curious, of course, and he wanted to experience it for himself, but what if what he felt for the girl at the train station  _ was _ love? Even worse, what if it  _ wasn’t _ ? Orpheus figured he’d rather know once he had his book back.

\--

“Orpheus!”

“Hm?”

Persephone was peering at him with a strange expression from behind the counter, her head tilted as though there must have been something wrong. For all Orpheus knew, there  _ was _ something wrong, though he couldn’t figure out what. The Lady of Ways was mostly empty besides a few customers Orpheus wasn’t familiar with.

“You normally have your head in the clouds, but you’ve been worse today than normal,” Persephone said, drying her hands. “You know I can’t have my employees moping in the restaurant, yes? If you need anything, you know I’m here.” It may not have been the nicest way to offer support, but Orpheus knew Persephone, and he knew it was kind in the way that was incredibly unique to her.

“I know, Lady Persephone. I’ll… get back to work.”

Persephone pursed her lips and Orpheus got the feeling she knew something he didn’t, but he pushed that thought away. He was used to that sort of expression when it came to Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos, but not usually when it came to Persephone. She was smart, and she as far more worldly than Orpheus happened to be, but she rarely knew more about Orpheus than he knew about himself. His thought went back to the letters. His, sitting on the counter at home. Persephone’s torn up and tossed in the trash can.

“Lady Persephone?” Persephone turned at the sound of Orpheus’ voice, quirking an eyebrow. “Forgive me for asking, but… have you ever written whoever sends you letters?”

For a moment, it looked like Persephone wasn’t going to respond, but her expression softened and she gave a slight nod.

“When we were both much younger, yes.” Her voice sounded distant, as though she had disappeared into the past her memory was beckoning her to. “You don’t need to skirt around it, Orpheus. We both know the letters come from Hades.”

It was the first time Orpheus had heard Persephone speak her husband’s name aloud, and he almost took a step back.

“Have you ever read them?”

“They all say the same thing. The same things he says when he takes me home with him in the winter. He thinks he’s being kind, Orpheus, but he doesn’t know what kindness is, not anymore. I… suppose it’s not a surprise that I loved him.” Her tone was wistful, and Orpheus was almost sorry for asking. He had seen lost love before. He knew what it had done to his father, he couldn’t imagine what it may have done to Persephone as well. He shook his head of the thought, turning his attention back to what she was saying. “I don’t read them anymore. He knows I don’t, and it works perfectly well for the both of us.”

For a moment, it looked like Persephone was about to offer some advice, but she closed her mouth a few moments after and gave a firm shake of her head.

“Don’t let yourself become bitter, Orpheus,” was all she said as she went about finishing up her work in the kitchen. Orpheus knew there was more to talk about, but he didn’t dare bring it up. He had asked what he needed to ask, though he didn’t have any firmer answers. He didn’t have any motivation to open up his father’s letter when he returned home. Maybe one day. Maybe when he felt a lot more certain about love.

The phone rang in the café suddenly, and Persephone gestured for Orpheus to take the call. They didn’t often get calls at The Lady of Ways, people tended to come in instead. They didn’t offer the chance to order ahead, so there really wasn’t much reason to call. In fact, the one time Orpheus remembered picking up the phone himself, it was a wrong number.

After letting it ring once or twice more, Orpheus edged closer, his heart pounding in his chest. He wasn’t used to talking on the phone, he didn’t like it much at all. There was a reason he only had two contacts in his phone, and the rest of his communication happened via letter. He may have appreciated how people connected, no matter how ephemeral their ties may be, but phone was not his preferred means of connection. It felt too impersonal, too… static. He understood the convenience of it, but there was no way to  _ read _ other people over the phone. In person, you could read their body language. In writing, you could see the slant of the letters, could tell if they were writing slowly or quickly, how well the words were flowing when they decided to write. The way the ink dripped off the pen revealed if they had hesitated writing a word, whether they had rethought it once or twice before committing, if they were passionate about what they were sharing. And those correspondences stayed forever, as long as you were careful about them.

“Hello this is Orpheus at The Lady of Ways Café how can I help you?” The words left Orpheus’ lips in one breath, with almost no gaps in between, and certainly none of the natural pauses that came with normal conversation. Hiding his emotions behind his tone or expression was a foreign concept at best to Orpheus. His nerves were well and truly on display.

In response? Nothing. Just silence for a few moments, then the sharp click of a phone being hung up, and the line went dead. Orpheus stared at the phone for just a few moments before setting it down in its holder and staring at it apprehensively for a few moments before he turned back to his work.

“Who was it?” Persephone was midway through asking when the phone rang again. Orpheus was close enough that it didn’t take him more than a few moments to pick it up. He tucked it under his ear as he continued to sweep.

“Who is this?” Orpheus demanded, trying to keep some of the frustration out of his tone. He succeeded, mostly. “This is The Lady of Ways Café, so if you were trying to reach someone else… I can hear you breathing,” he commented lamely. “If this is a prank call…” his eyes widened as he realized. He shot a glance at Persephone and disappeared into the kitchen, taking the phone with him. “Is this the girl from the train station? Please, don’t hang up, I…”

The girl on the other end of the call just kept breathing.

“Do you still have my book? I… it’s important to me.” That wasn’t it, though, that wasn’t all. “What’s your name?”

More breathing,

“I’m sorry, when you told me your name I didn’t hear it, I just heard… the clock, and… who are you?”

“I’m the girl who always runs away.” There was a breathless quality to her voice, as though she had been considering whether or not to speak and had only just decided to. Her voice… she was the one who had noticed he hadn’t played that one night. Which meant she’d waited… which meant she’d heard him play every other night. Now it was his turn to breathe into the line, a communal silence and a pattern of inhalation and exhalation that seemed to create a rhythm far more natural than anything Orpheus could manage in his music.

“If I play again this evening, will you be there?”

Another long pause, and then something that sounded like a smile. Did a smile have sound? If it did, Orpheus figured it would sound a lot like that. “Why do you wanna know?”

If Orpheus closed his eyes, he could picture her saying that, the twinkle in her eyes alive with a teasing affect. Was there anything genuine beneath it? Orpheus wanted to find out.

“The song. The one I sang last time… it’s supposed to be humanity. It’s supposed to remind people to look up and I… I want to finish it. And you, when I was looking at you, it was like I knew how. For the first time in years.”

“A poet, huh?” the girl mused, though her voice was still quiet. “You use that line on all the girls?”

“I… what? No, I…” There was a long pause before Orpheus sighed and, with just a tiny hint of desperation, “Will I see you again?”

The girl hesitated for another too-long second, and Orpheus was half afraid that Persephone would burst into the kitchen and demand to know what he was doing. Orpheus knew he didn’t have a good answer for her. He barely had a good enough answer for himself.

“If I could read music I bet I could make quite a fortune with the songs from your book,” the girl commented, and once again Orpheus thought he could picture the expression that would accompany the words.

“Please don’t,” he managed, breathless. “The song’s not finished yet, I just… I played what I had, and even that’s not…”

“Orpheus.” The sound of his own name on the girl’s lips was enough to give Orpheus pause, to cut through his thoughts and bring him squarely back to reality. Orpheus waited for several long seconds, desperate to know if there would be more. There had to be more. He could hear the girl breathing on the other end, probably wondering the same thing. His name on her tongue was enough to ground this whole conversation to some sort of reality. 

Orpheus opened his mouth to say something, but she beat him to it. 

“I’m Eurydice.” The words escaped in a single breath, and before Orpheus could react, the line went dead.


	7. Chapter 7

Eurydice. The name was like the call of a bird on an early summer morning. The smell of fresh baked cookies. Holding someone close that you hadn’t seen in far too long. A half-remembered dream that you tried to return to by rolling over and pressing your face against the pillow as you grasped on to the last fleeting wisps of it.

Eurydice. Orpheus couldn’t help but smile as his mind brought forth her name again, a constant reminder of what lay ahead of him, of who he had to find. Suddenly the girl – no, not the girl,  _ Eurydice _ – seemed just as important as the song book. He could rewrite his songs, he could write new ones, just as he’d written his own future. He couldn’t replace the girl who seemed almost like a spirit in the way she could disappear at any moment. He wanted to hold her, to press his forehead against hers and whisper her name and make her want to stay.

Yet as he sat in his usual spot at the corner of the station’s almost-lobby, playing loud enough to gather a small crowd (smaller than his usual crowd, at any rate), he saw no sign of Eurydice or the book she’d taken. There was something about her reading it that sent a shiver down Orpheus’ spine. He knew she had every right to do so. He knew he shouldn’t hold it against her – after all, he’d looked in the box he was still trying desperately to return – but there was something about it that felt uneven. He didn’t think he resented her for it, because he still wanted to see her again, he wanted to reach out to her more than he wanted the book back, but he wished she was here.

Orpheus’ gaze scanned over some of the people he had come to think of as “regulars,” giving them small smiles before they had to depart to make their train, or to go home to their families. Or, perhaps, to empty apartments where they let their lives unfold, solitary and alone. There was nothing wrong with that – it was what Orpheus himself did, of course. He wondered, though, if any of them ever felt lonely. If any of them had their own versions of Eurydice – people that escaped their grasp through cleverness and something else they couldn’t quite grasp. Orpheus wished he could call her back, ask her why she hadn’t shown up, but she hadn’t left a number. Given that she’d barely stayed on the line for one call, he doubted she’d take kindly to another.

The songs Orpheus played were melancholy. Forlorn. Or… not that, perhaps. He wasn’t sure he had a word, but they were more hopeful than either of those words seemed to suggest. Yearning, perhaps. Longing.

He pondered over those words as he played, a little more hesitant to sing since his head was surrounded on all sides by thoughts, his concentration little more than a sailboat fighting tidal waves that tossed it around with little consequence. No, he didn’t have enough mental space left to consider lyrics. Not when playing came so naturally, when it helped to clear his mind rather than adding more nonsense to it.

Yearning was the word his mind settled on. For what, exactly, he couldn’t be sure. Knowledge of what he didn’t know, that was for certain. Eurydice herself, perhaps. Another glimpse of those whirlpool eyes, the mesmerizing tiger’s eye hue with thoughts and mysteries that teased Orpheus even in memory. He held onto a chord longer than he strictly needed to, if only because he could imagine the smile it would get out of her. That smile that seemed to appear so rarely, that required a little bit of work to make appear, and the one that made it feel like the sun hadn’t quite risen yet. Perhaps, Orpheus considered, he was putting too much thought into this. Yet something in his heart rebelled at the thought of shelving the topic of Eurydice for future consideration.

She should have been there. She hadn’t promised she would be, or anything, but it didn’t change the fact that Orpheus  _ wanted _ her there. He wanted to see her smile, wanted to look into her eyes and catch a glimpse of the thoughts he’d only just begun to hear expressed over the phone. He heard her voice in his ear, teasing him for letting her linger in his mind for so long. He flushed red, then switched songs to something a little bit more upbeat.

Love. Was that what this was? Was that the invisible string he saw connecting people as each life touched for brief, intangible moments? Was that what humanity felt for each other?

An announcement played over the speaker of the train station, and Orpheus looked up in surprise. He hadn’t realized the time, and though he had nowhere to run off to this time, it felt appropriate to leave at the same time he had the night before. Orpheus’ whole life was defined by routine, it seemed odd to break out of that now. He needed the familiarity of a schedule when everything else was turning upside down in his mind. It might help ground him when his thoughts lifted him up and pushed him lightly up into the clouds, like a hot air balloon taking flight. The more his thoughts flurried around his head, the higher up Orpheus seemed to drift. The box without a clear owner. The warning Atropos had given him. The letter from his father, still sitting in its place on the countertop. Eurydice herself, her voice lifting Orpheus up higher and higher until he could see the curvature of the Earth. The world looked so small from up there in his mind. The world with all of its tiny people living lives that changed and influenced everyone else around them. The world where every single decision could change the course of an entire life, and nobody would ever know.

Even just in his imagination, as the train wound its way through the underground back home, Orpheus understood the astronauts that said they felt small, looking down at the Earth from the ISS. He understood, and he wanted to reach out to them, wanted to tell them that he  _ knew _ . And it didn’t make him hopeless. It reminded him that even if each individual person couldn’t be seen from the sky, the lights they built in their cities could. The lives they lived were visible, even if the details were too tiny to grasp. Every light on in a window in the middle of the night mattered. Every wish placed on a star, every time people held hands or shared their laughter or met each other’s gaze, even for a moment.

Orpheus’ feet stepped off the train and began moving towards his apartment, still more in the sky than he was in reality. That was why he needed routine, habits that became mindless enough that Orpheus had time to zoom all the way back in from the heavens, and look with brand new eyes on the thoughts that were plaguing him. He was at a dead end, it seemed, but perhaps fresh eyes could bring a new perspective. Perhaps he could start again tomorrow, and perhaps he’d be able to take a step forward.

_ I’ve been just as stuck here as I was at home, _ Orpheus realized as he opened the door to his apartment.  _ I haven’t made any progress on the song. I spent every day in the same routine, and nothing changes. I don’t get answers. _

_ Perhaps, _ spoke the part of Orpheus that had written the letter to his father and played for Eurydice before he’d even been certain the song was ready enough to be shared,  _ you are mistaken. Perhaps you are taking steps. You have friends. You have the connections you watched from afar. Perhaps it is time to start running. Perhaps your strides should grow longer. _

\--

When Orpheus arrived for work the next morning, there was another envelope waiting for Persephone, written in the same steady hand that always addressed the others.

_ Persephone _

_ The Lady of Ways Café. _

That was all that was on the front side of the envelope, besides a stamp that was probably worth a good deal more than the actual envelope cost to send. There was no specific address. It was a realization that didn’t strike Orpheus until a good fifteen minutes later as he swept underneath all of the chairs and waited for the bread to be done baking. There was no address, so it couldn’t have been mailed. The Lady of Ways was well known to its patrons, but virtually invisible against the wider background of the city, let alone the world.

Hesitantly, for fear Persephone might see him and be upset at him snooping in her personal business, Orpheus flipped the envelope over to the other side. No return address, just a single name in gold ink and the same firm, unyielding script.

_ Hades. _

It was odd to finally see the name written by the man who had taken Persephone away for two winters without Orpheus being able to do anything but keep the building clean in her absence. He had seemed large and intimidating when he was just an idea. A figure that came, and when he did, The Lady of Ways lay empty and abandoned without Persephone’s spirit to wake it up. A series of letters addressed in gold ink and firm handwriting. He seemed much more…  _ human _ now that Orpheus saw the way he wrote his name. Now that Orpheus knew he cared enough to hand-deliver. Orpheus wondered how much time it took him to make his way to the café unseen one night a week. He wondered why he had decided to leave two letters this week. He wondered if Persephone was even going to bother to read the second one. It was, after all, apparently important enough to warrant a second visit in the same week.

Orpheus quickly flipped the letter back so the café’s address was facing front, as it had been when Orpheus had first noticed it. He heard Persephone in the front of the café, taking stock of what repairs might need to be made next time they had a few hours with no customers, and making sure the menu properly reflected what they had available for the day. Orpheus left the mail where it was sitting and turned his attention back to the bread. It was already starting to smell amazing, and Orpheus gave the chef a small smile to show his approval.

He had asked once if he could learn how to make bread, and though he’d tried multiple loaves on his own, they were never going to be good enough to sell. It did mean, however, that Orpheus consumed an unhealthy amount of lavender bread in the comfort of his small apartment, and also that the fire alarm had gone off the first time Orpheus had endeavored to recreate the chef’s recipe. The entire building had been evacuated before Orpheus had realized that it was his fault, he’d just used the wrong kind of paper to separate the bread from the pan. And that technically, parchment paper was a stupid idea anyway.

“Lady Persephone?” Orpheus asked, peeking his head out of the kitchen so he could speak with Persephone without them having to yell between rooms.

“Yes?”

“I was wondering… I know we have a chef for a reason, but I figure… could I spend more of my shift in the kitchen today?”

Persephone pursed her lips, obviously taking that into careful consideration before nodding once. “You can’t avoid Atropos forever you know,” she warned.

“That’s not…  _ all _ of why I wanted to do it,” he protested. “I just figure it might help… wait times, sometimes. To have a server who at least knows his way around the kitchen.”

“That’s not what I hired you for, but I’ll let you have it for today. If we get busy, you’re back out front.”

“Thank you, Lady Persephone!”

Orpheus heard Persephone sigh as he turned back around to make his way into the kitchen. He also heard a muffled “You’re welcome, Orpheus,” but he wasn’t sure if Lady Persephone had intended him to hear it or not.

\--

Orpheus’ sojourn in the kitchen was going far better than he had expected. He didn’t expect to actually be making food, but he knew if he wanted to help keep The Lady of Ways open come winter – which was approaching quicker than Orpheus would have liked – he needed to at least know what ingredients went in which recipes, and what they could put on the menu depending on what resources they had available. There was much more to running a café, it seemed, than just serving and making small talk with the customers. Though Orpheus knew if the café did in fact remain open through winter, most of the work would fall on Hermes’ shoulders, he also knew that Hermes had another job to work, and keeping the café open without Persephone there would mean more work than Hermes would be able to realistically take on.

It wouldn’t do to tell Persephone his true motives. She would protest that what happened to the café in the winter was none of his concern, that it was between Hermes and Persephone, though she “appreciated his willingness to try to help.” If there was one thing Orpheus had learned in his life, it was that it was better to beg forgiveness than ask permission. He was going to help keep The Lady of Ways alive, even if Persephone didn’t want him getting mixed up in the café’s affairs during winter.

“Orpheus!”

Both Orpheus and the chef glanced up at the sound of Persephone’s voice, though Orpheus was in the middle of recording the recipe they used for the French toast.

“One minute, Lady Persephone!” Orpheus called back, nodding to the chef to allow him to finish talking. Orpheus continued jotting down the rest of the steps as a piece of French toast sizzled in the pan while they watched. It smelled delicious, though not as good as the lavender bread that Orpheus had already stolen a slice from. Persephone might have given him a disapproving look had she noticed, but she had long ago stopped trying to get him to stop tasting the bread.

“How else do I know I’ve let it bake long enough?” he had protested, though the baking times on the breads had been the same since well before Orpheus had joined the staff. It wasn’t a battle Persephone had wanted to fight, and Orpheus had been grateful. When Persephone picked her battles, she picked them well. She was nearly impossible to beat in an argument when she set her mind to it, and Orpheus wasn’t particularly good at arguing anyways. He was better at persuasion, before an argument even began. If he could convince his opponent to listen to them before they fired back any responses, he could usually win the argument.

“Perhaps,” the chef suggested, flipping the French toast over in the pan, “you could go see what Persephone needed you for.”

Before Orpheus could agree and enter the dining room, Persephone appeared through the swinging doors and threw back a shot, meeting Orpheus’ surprised gaze for a moment before gesturing out the doors.

“You’ve got someone here for you,” she said, filling her shot glass with water and quickly downing that as well. From the smudge of golden ink on her hand, Orpheus got the feeling she may have actually opened the most recent letter rather than throwing it away. Now was almost certainly not the time to ask.

“Who?” he asked instead, then shook his head. He could deal with whoever was there later. “Lady Persephone, are you alright?”

She flashed him a smile that Orpheus was almost positive was anything but alright, but he didn’t dare comment on it.

“Perfect,” she responded, her posture wavering just a little bit. “Why wouldn’t I be?” There was something darker in her tone, something Orpheus hadn’t heard since the days before she’d closed down The Lady of Ways the summer before. It was too soon now. Orpheus wanted to ask, but he figured it was likely better to ask when he had Persephone in private. When he could offer to help keep it open in the winter, to honor her.

Orpheus frowned at her, but it didn’t seem like she was going to give him anything else to work with. He gave a soft sigh, shaking his head. They weren’t entirely alone, and even if there were, there wasn’t much Orpheus felt he could do to help anyway. What he could do was get Persephone thinking about something – anything – else.

“Who did you say was there for me?” There wasn’t anyone Orpheus could think of, unless Atropos was there and just wanted to give him a hard time. That was definitely an option, but he didn’t find it likely.

“A girl.”

Orpheus’ eyes widened and he had to resist the urge to run to the front of the café to make sure she was still there.

“She had your songbook, Orpheus.” There was definitely concern in Persephone’s voice, and though Orpheus understood where it came from (Persephone of all people knew how fiercely he guarded that book), he couldn’t help but smile.

“I think she probably came to return it.”

“That’s what she said, but she seemed awfully concerned when I offered to take it for you. I told her I was just going to run in here and send you out.”

“Thank you,” Orpheus said, making his way out the kitchen doors as quickly as he could manage. He turned his head and saw a flash of motion heading out the doors, and the girl nowhere in sight. He frowned, doing a second scan to make sure he hadn’t missed anyone, then rushed for the door and pulled it open just in time to see that familiar cropped, dark hair rounding the corner, getting further and further away. Orpheus ran a few more steps, desperate to stop her.

“Eurydice!” Her name left his lips before he could stop it, and he saw her hesitate just a moment before she continued walking.

“Orpheus!” Persephone’s voice – annoyed, though he could tell she was trying her best to contain it – pulled him back to the café. He could hear the regret in her tone. She knew as well as he did how much the book mattered, but the café was busier than usual, and Persephone had been doing him a favor by not calling him in to work the front for as long as she had. Orpheus reluctantly made his way back, casting one last glance in the direction the girl had gone. He didn’t know where to find her, or how to follow her. She had her own world, a world that he wasn’t aware of yet, no matter how much he wanted to be. And yet she kept flitting in and out of his, and entirely by her choice. Orpheus didn’t  _ think _ he’d pressured her at all. He hoped he hadn’t. He wanted her to stay of her own volition. And as long as it took, even if it took eternity, if she would come back to him, if she’d give him back the book and deign to stay herself… well. He’d be more than willing to wait for her.

\--

Orpheus had been pacing his apartment more times than he could count when he heard a knock at his door. It took him a moment to process that it hadn’t just been in his head, but when he opened his door, Hermes stood there with a look of quiet appraisal on his face.

“Mr. Hermes, come in,” Orpheus greeted, holding the door open. “To what do I owe this visit?”

Hermes took a seat on the tattered couch that Orpheus so rarely used himself. He found it was too far away from the window to do much good, and Orpheus wasn’t the type who liked to sit down after a long day and watch TV. He much preferred to people-watch, even if the things he saw were slightly less exciting than the television shows he so often heard people talking about. It felt more real to him, to imagine the stories of the people walking past.

“Persephone might have to leave earlier this year.”

Orpheus’ eyes narrowed. “She left early last year.”

“Hades is not a patient man.”

“I don’t know much at all about Mr. Hades. It’s like nobody will tell me.”

Hermes took in a deep breath, fixing his gaze on Orpheus.

“It’s an old tale. It’s happened hundreds of times before, but nobody ever sees it coming.” He sounded sad, as though whatever had happened between Hades and Persephone was an inevitability when it came to love. Orpheus knew that, he’d seen how his mother had treated his father. He’d seen how she left when she lost interest. A sour taste settled in the back of his throat.

“Is that how it always ends?”

“It hasn’t ended yet, Orpheus. Why do you think he still sends her letters?”

“The same reasons my father reads over my mother’s poetry even though she’s long gone and likely hasn’t thought of him or it in years? Because he’s afraid to let go?”

Hermes gave a tiny, sad smile. “That’s the way of things, sometimes. I think it’s time you’re told the story. It’s one you’ve heard before, I’m sure. What I came to ask you as well, though… tell me about that girl. The one who has your songbook.”

Orpheus frowned, unsure how to proceed. There were things he wanted to say, but he didn’t know how many of them were true. He would have liked to ask where Hermes had found out about her, but he had no doubt that Hermes had just had a long conversation with Persephone. After all, Orpheus figured that if Persephone was going to tell  _ anyone _ about having to shut down the Lady of Ways earlier than usual, it would be Hermes. He pushed the thought away, instead focusing on the question at hand.

“She started listening to me play at the train station the first day you suggested I do so. She caught my eye,” he began, his frown disappearing as his lips tugged upwards at the memory. “She was trying to pretend she wasn’t listening, but I could tell she was. She kept looking over, thinking I wouldn’t notice, and I kept looking at her, thinking she might not notice, and… and she ran, when we made eye contact. I wanted to go after her, but I didn’t want to draw attention to her if she didn’t want any attention drawn, you know? So I let her disappear, and I thought about her the whole next few days. I didn’t know that she came back to listen to me play each subsequent night, because I never saw her, but she was there. And I kept imagining her listening, though I thought she was probably long gone, and then I didn’t play one day. There was a lot going on, and I didn’t… really have time, but… but the next day, when Hestia invited me to dinner,” Orpheus paused, taking a deep breath. He hadn’t realized the story was all coming out at once until he had to take a break in the middle of it just to catch his breath.

“She commented that I hadn’t been there the day before, and I… I genuinely didn’t even think she’d notice something like that. I had set myself up to never see her again. But there she was, and… Mr. Hermes, I wish you’d been there, because the song I’ve been working on? The one that I’ve been trying to work on since I first moved here? I played it for her, and it was different from any other attempt I’ve made at it. It’s like it worked for the first time, Mr. Hermes. It wasn’t perfect, and it wasn’t done, but it was  _ something. _ And it’s like time didn’t matter, like I could keep playing forever until I reached the end of the song and the clock chimed, and I was asking her name, and I was going to be late…”

“Orpheus, breathe.”

Orpheus took another pause, trying to take another breath before he got away from himself. “I left my book. She tried to follow me, but I was already on the train, and all she had was my first name. She was able to find The Lady of Ways, and she told me over the phone her name was Eurydice, but I don’t know anything about her other than that. Well… other than what I’ve gleaned from the fact that she was willing to sit and wait to hear me play. And the fact that she’s trying to bring the book back but that she’s afraid of what happens if we get to talk face to face. I just… I care about the book, Mr. Hermes, you know I do, but for some reason I think I care more about seeing her again. The songbook is basically replaceable. She’s… not.”

“Orpheus,” Hermes began after a long, silent moment. “Are you in love with this girl?”

Orpheus froze, his gaze flickering back to the envelope that still sat on his counter. The envelope that would tell him, in his father’s words, what love was. He knew it wouldn’t be the same experience everyone had, because love wasn’t something tangible, it wasn’t something that existed in a form that could be described by a casual observer, or even by someone deep in the throws of it. It refused to be defined, and in that sense, Orpheus related to it. He didn’t know how to define himself in terms of other people.

“Am I?” Orpheus asked, his voice trembling with the weight of the question. He never thought he’d feel love like that. Maybe he’d come to learn that the connection he saw, the web he watched being spun from the outside, maybe he had realized that it was spun with love, but he’d never expected to find himself  _ in _ love. Perhaps on the outskirts. Perhaps in love with humanity itself, because that was what he had felt since he was a very small child, but in love with one person? In love with a girl?

“Orpheus, you know as well as I that you’re asking a question I can’t answer for you.”

“It would be much simpler if you could,” Orpheus returned, burying his head in his hands. He thought for a minute, then peered up at Hermes. “Was Lady Persephone in love with Mr. Hades? Were they both in love, did they… did they feel the same?”

Hermes didn’t hesitate before he gave a firm nod. Orpheus thought he could once again detect a little bit of sadness in the almost-smile that pulled against Hermes’ lips.

“What happened?”

“I can tell you the story up to that,” Hermes returned, leaning back comfortably on the sofa and regarding Orpheus carefully. Of everyone Orpheus knew, Hermes was best at reading him. It wasn’t a particularly hard task, given he tended to wear his emotions out on his sleeve, “But that part is not mine to tell. That part belongs to Persephone and Hades, and every lover who has felt their struggle. Decide for me, Orpheus, if you are in love. If you are, you may well know what I mean. You may understand what happened, if you give a little thought to it.”

“How do I know if I’m in love?”

“That, Orpheus, you’ll have to figure out for yourself.”

Orpheus sighed, wishing there was a simple answer. Wishing he could know for sure what love meant and wishing he could ask Eurydice herself if he felt anything at all. Orpheus wanted to love her. He wanted to be loved in return.

“I’m afraid,” Orpheus admitted, the words hanging in the air. “I’m afraid of what being in love means. I don’t… I don’t want to end my story alone, Mr. Hermes.”

Hermes gave a kind smile. “Perhaps, then, we should save this story for another day.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your support and kind comments - I teared up reading a few! Sorry for a slower update this time around, with school starting time is scarce but I promise this fic will continue to be updated!

Orpheus stared out his window, scratching away yet another line in the new notebook that sat propped open on his windowsill. He hadn’t used it enough yet that it would stay open without the help of a rather heavy stone placed right across the middle. It made writing and rewriting more difficult than Orpheus cared for, but he needed to get his thoughts down  _ somewhere. _

Love. It was such an abstract concept, and though Orpheus wanted a simple definition, though he wanted to know what it felt like so he could be certain of his own feelings, he knew Hermes was right. It was something he had to figure out by himself. What he felt was out of reach for anyone but himself, and even the best description he could offer likely wouldn’t do his feelings justice. No, nobody would be able to tell him for certain what he felt. 

He’d taken to trying to write it out, trying to turn it into a song. It was what he had done since he was too young to process how big the world around him was. As he wrote and rewrote lines for perhaps the fiftieth time that evening, Orpheus had to admit that it might not be that simple anymore. Describing his feelings, even in music, couldn’t give them a name. 

Frustrated, he pushed the stone away, and let the notebook drift closed. Who was he to worry about this when Persephone was dealing with  _ actual _ problems? He sighed, burying his head in his hands for a moment before tugging to undo the knot on his bandana. He couldn't breathe properly. He should have let Hermes tell his story. He shouldn’t have derailed it with his own feelings, his own story that might not even matter anymore, because Persephone left earlier and earlier every year and came back later and later and at some point she might never come back at all. 

“They were in love,” he murmured to himself, as though that mattered. As though it was important, though he didn’t know for certain why. 

His song was about love. Not the one he was writing now, because that wasn’t so much a song yet as a collection of lines that felt false and shallow. Those lines were the thin approximations of love he’d heard secondhand. They didn’t ring true even to him. 

No, the song he’d been writing his whole life. The one he’d played for Eurydice when he’d given her his name and, intentionally or not, tied their fates together at least until he had his book back. 

_ To love a stranger. To give them back their heart. _

The song couldn’t just be for him anymore. His heart pounded in his chest and he feverishly flipped his new book to a random page and propped it open so he could start writing. 

He scribbled down every word, every note he remembered. It wasn’t much, because when he tried he kept picturing the way Eurydice’s eyes had reflected the light bouncing off his guitar. He kept seeing the way her gentle fingers had kept rhythm with the more upbeat parts of the song, like she’d wanted to dance but had to relegate the urge just to her fingertips. 

Though his heart still reached out to her, she couldn’t be his focus now. He needed to remember the  _ song _ , all of the parts that had worked, because suddenly it was important. Suddenly it was about so much more than him and the nebulous ties he saw between people. Suddenly it was about real people and the urge to prove that love didn’t have to die. That the story didn’t have to  _ end _ there, because what was the point, then? What was the point in losing the thing that brought you closer to another person, that tied your fate to theirs?

Atropos hadn’t been warning Orpheus about his own future. She was warning him that the wind was quite literally changing, that winter would be coming far more quickly than Orpheus had anticipated. 

Persephone had asked if he could finish the song before winter, and he’d thought he had more  _ time. _ It seemed he’d been mistaken. It seemed a lot more was riding on the song than he’d thought. 

It didn’t matter whether or not Orpheus was in love. What  _ mattered _ was whether or not he could accurately transcribe the feeling. What mattered was that his song capture love in all its forms. What mattered was that his song stop Persephone from disappearing entirely. 

Could he do that? Could he pretend to be competent enough to do that? Nothing seemed more important at that moment. Nothing pulled more firmly at his heart. 

Who was he to think he could stop love from going bad, if that was the course it was bound to run? Who was he to take on this weight? It wasn’t his story. It wasn’t even Hermes’ to tell, so how could Orpheus possibly hope to interfere in it?

He was pressing too hard against the page with his pen, and the tip of it broke off, dowsing the paper (and Orpheus’ hand) with dark black ink. Surprised, he pulled his hand away and shook as much of the ink free of it as he could. Which had no effect other than making  _ more _ of a mess. Perhaps he should have considered washing his hands instead. 

Concentration broken, Orpheus pushed his chair backwards and extricated himself from his guitar as best he could without getting any ink on the shiny, well maintained surface. He managed to avoid all but a tiny, ink smudged fingerprint near the very base of the instrument. 

He grabbed a handful of paper towels and did his best to dab at the ink splattering the notebook, but all he managed to do was smudge it even more. Most of what he’d written - most of what he’d remembered - was illegible. He resisted the urge to swear quietly, and instead carefully tore the page out and attempted to hold it up to his lamp as though he might be able to recover the words hiding just under a layer of ink. 

He could see where he’d pressed just a little bit harder against the paper, though most of it was still obscured. He frowned, then glanced back at the notebook, still lying open. Ignoring - or forgetting, it could have been either - the ink still covering his hand, he moved towards the shelf in the corner of the room and began to push things around, searching for a pencil. He normally liked the permanence of a pen, but he only had one shot at this. He didn’t want to ruin it by pressing too hard again. 

After smearing a good portion of his meager belongings with ink, Orpheus eventually found a pencil. Carefully, he wiped his ink stained hand on his (previously white) shirt, and made his way back to the notebook. 

With as much precision as he could muster, Orpheus tilted the pencil so a greater surface area of graphite was touching the paper, and very lightly shaded over the page that had been directly underneath the page that had been ruined. 

It wasn’t perfect by far, but at least half of the words stared up at him from the makeshift rubbing. It was a start. He turned the ink splattered page over and etched the words he’d managed to recover on the back. 

It almost felt as though something in the universe was trying to get in the way of him writing the song. Too bad. The Lady of Ways mattered to him. Persephone mattered to him. Humanity as a whole mattered to him, perhaps more than it ever had before. 

It would be so much easier if he had his book. It would be so much easier if he could see Eurydice again, just once. Once he figured this out, he could work out whether or not he loved her. It was too early to know anyway, right? He’d only spoken to her once. His heart jolted at the thought, as though gently rebuking him. His heart didn’t follow logic. He highly doubted anybody’s did. 

“Mr. Hades,” Orpheus murmured to the open air, “do you still love Lady Persephone? Is that why this isn’t over?” 

Did love fade over time? Did it tarnish like silver jewelry that hadn’t been polished in years? Or did it rust like valuables caught up in a flood? Was it salvageable, or was the answer just to toss it aside? 

No, there  _ had  _ to be another option. 

Orpheus settled back down into his seat, set his shoulders, and leaned back down to write. His music had the power to touch hearts. He’d seen that in the way people stopped to listen to him at the train station. The question now was whether it had the power to  _ change _ them. He wasn’t even clear if that was the goal, but better to aim high than miss the mark entirely. 

_ It hasn’t ended yet, _ Hermes had said. Which meant there was still something there between them. There was something for Orpheus to draw from. It had to be good enough. 

\--

When Orpheus arrived at The Lady of Ways, the door was locked. His heart stopped for just a moment as he pulled out his phone to check the time. He was late. Persephone wasn’t there yet. 

_ I’m too late. _ The thought settled into his bones like water poured into a cup of ice, filling every crevice and worming its way through the holes. He fumbled for his own set of keys that he always kept on his person, despite never having to use them. 

The café was dark, a sight unfamiliar to Orpheus when there was still sunlight filtering in from the windows. Persephone usually made sure the place was filled with light - more light than was strictly necessary. 

The year before, she’d at least left a note. Orpheus squeezed his eyes shut and considered what to do. He considered calling Hermes, but what could Hermes do? He had gone to Orpheus the night before, and what had Orpheus done? Not listened. Just rambled about Eurydice instead.  _ Stupid. _

“Orpheus.”

Orpheus whirled at the sound of his name from behind him, his heart restarting only after seeing that it was Persephone. The clothing she wore was more drab than normal, and she looked as though she hadn’t slept, but she was still there. Without thinking, Orpheus rushed forwards and embraced her, holding her close. She stood still for a long moment before awkwardly wrapping her arms around Orpheus in return, as though she’d forgotten what a hug was. Or, perhaps, as though she’d never received one before. Orpheus hoped that wasn’t the case.

“I thought you were gone,” he whispered, his voice filled with a soft kind of horror.

“Hades may be insistent, but even he would let me close up properly,” Persephone returned, flipping the light switch and moving around the building to light some of her numerous floral-scented candles.

“I was just… worried. Mr. Hermes told me you might have to leave earlier than usual this year.”

Persephone cocked an eyebrow. “Is that so?” She paused for a moment, putting out the match before looking over her shoulder at Orpheus. “I don’t believe there’s a usual anymore. It gets earlier and earlier every year.”

“Is that why he sent two letters this week?”

Persephone narrowed her eyes, looking Orpheus over once, then twice. “Yes.” Her voice was harsh, though Orpheus didn’t think it was directed at him. “He’s coming sooner than usual. He was telling me to get my things in order. There’s not much to get in order.” She adjusted her charcoal dress, and Orpheus almost had to look away. It made her appear to be in mourning, while he was used to Persephone’s vibrant shades of green. He was used to the life Persephone couldn’t help but bring to the café.

He wanted to ask her why she was going when she so clearly didn’t want to, but he figured she was probably having a hard enough time with the arrangement without having to deal with Orpheus’ inane questions. He wanted to ask  _ where _ , but Persephone seemed set on operating like it was any other morning. If Orpheus weren’t so desperate to help, he might have let her.

“Mr. Hermes could take over the café for you, while you’re gone. I know you’re talking about that with him, but he’s busy a lot of the time, and he might not be able to be around all the time because of train journeys, and I just thought… I’m not as experienced as you or Mr. Hermes, but I could help. And I could help make sure you get to come back, right? Someone could talk to Mr. Hades and tell him why the café matters. He might listen…”

Persephone gave a grim smile and shook her head. “I’d like to live in the world you do, where Hades listens to reason. When I go, maybe I’ll leave Hermes in charge, and he can ask you to do anything I would. I won’t ask you to take charge of The Lady of Ways for me, Orpheus. Not when you have your own future ahead of you that doesn’t revolve around my café. You could be anything you wanted to be, Orpheus, and nobody would be able to stop you. You could become famous with that music of yours, Hermes and I both know that. Why, then would we keep you here? You’re too young to get tangled up in all of this, Orpheus.”

Orpheus took an involuntary step back, feeling incredibly rebuffed. While he knew that had been Persephone’s intent, he hadn’t expected it to hurt quite so much.

“I don’t want to leave The Lady of Ways,” he protested quietly. “It’s as much a home to me as my apartment is, and it’s so  _ hard _ , walking by the closed doors in the wintertime because you aren’t there to keep it alive. Lady Persephone, please. Let me help.”

Persephone regarded him for a few long moments, her eyes searching his as though she suddenly saw him in a new light. Orpheus had to conceal a smile – it seemed that his words were working. That maybe, just maybe, Persephone would be willing to reconsider.

“Orpheus, no. I won’t have you getting mixed up in this. It’s dangerous, and you’re young. That’s my final word on that.”

“My song could help.”

Persephone froze, turning to look at Orpheus one last time. He met her gaze, not quite rising to the challenge, but not shrinking away either.

“Orpheus, I’ve heard your music, and it’s phenomenal, but it’s just a song. It can’t fix the way the world is. It can’t change who people are. I’d love to hear it when I get back, but I don’t believe it can fix this.

Orpheus frowned, opening his mouth to retort, but he found he had no words. He just wanted to  _ help _ , and he had a way to, even if Persephone didn’t believe it was possible. Wordlessly, he went back to cleaning up the front of the café, making it presentable for the customers despite the fact that they’d both started up rather late. Orpheus had never once seen Persephone late to work. Never. Sometimes he thought she even slept at the café, because she was always the last to leave and the first to arrive.

“Orpheus, can you collect the mail for me?”

“Yes, Lady Persephone.” It was hard to keep the tension out of his voice, though none of it was directed at Persephone. It was directed to the world in general, the world that thought it was okay to force Persephone away for months at a time. The world that didn’t want to let Orpheus even try to help. Try to fix love before it went sour. Just because it had happened to his father didn’t mean it had to happen to everyone. Despite what Hermes had implied, Orpheus didn’t believe that.

Orpheus was so distracted by his thoughts that he didn’t notice what he was flipping through until he caught sight of an envelope in unfamiliar handwriting. This one, like the letters from Hades, had no address or return address, but at least there hadn’t been any postage wasted on this one. The handwriting was rather flowy, with delicate loops forming his name.

_ Orpheus. _

Oh. Oh, that was  _ his _ name, which was unusual. Nobody ever addressed anything to him here. Mentally, Orpheus sifted through the mail he’d opened the other day and briefly considered whether he’d ignored anything for long enough that someone might try to send something to where he worked, but if they were in town it would be so much easier to just stop by than to hand-deliver a letter. There was no name written on the envelope, other than his. No way to know who the sender was.

Except that was ridiculous. Orpheus knew who the sender was, because there really was only one person it could be. The handwriting slid in easily with his image of her, and he could picture the way her bracelets slid across the paper as she carefully addressed it. She’d been here – probably in the middle of the night, given that the letter was at the bottom of the mail stack – and he’d missed her. He just wanted one conversation with her. One real one, where he could see her face rather than just hearing her breathing over the phone.

With long, trembling fingers, Orpheus opened the envelope (accidentally ripping part of the top half as he did so. He’d never been particularly good at opening envelopes without any damage to the envelope itself).

The first thing to catch Orpheus’ eye was a page that seemed to have come from his song book. At first Orpheus was afraid that it had been torn out and sent to him – which would completely ruin the organizational system of the book that really only he understood – but it quickly became clear that it had just been photocopied. There were tiny notes scribbled next to the lyrics in the same handwriting as was on the front.

At the bottom of the page, Eurydice had drawn a sad face and written “The version you sang for me at the station was better. It’s like you understood it more.” And then a small ink trail before, in smaller letters, “I think I’d still like to hear this version.” Orpheus smiled, gently tracing his finger across one of the little notes. She had read the music, and even without hearing it, had decided that the poetry was worth commenting on.

Stapled to the photocopied page, Orpheus found a tiny sheet of paper.

_ This looks important. I’m sorry I took it, I just… wasn’t ready to give it up yet. I wasn’t ready to give  _ this _ up yet. _

_ I told you I’m the girl who runs away. I hope you didn’t think you were an exception. _

_ You made me want to stay, when you played. _

_ Find me tonight, where it all started. _

Orpheus stared at the words for a few long moments, excitement pumping through his heart. He hadn’t expected it to be that easy. He had thought he’d have to chase the girl longer to get the book back. He had thought he’d have to chase her longer to have a chance at speaking to her live. It was almost enough to make him forget about everything else happening. Almost. The truth was, he needed that notebook, and his relief was as much because of that as it was because the girl seemed willing to meet him. On her own terms, in a place that was comfortable for them both. Orpheus was okay with that.

“Anything interesting in the mail?” Persephone asked wryly as Orpheus stepped back inside.

Orpheus took a moment, watching her. He needn’t worry her with that.

“Not really, no.” Orpheus wasn’t used to lying, and he wasn’t particularly good at it, but Persephone’s mind was elsewhere. Orpheus could tell just by the distracted way she sifted through the mail and tossed a few of the envelopes she normally would have considered with a little bit more care.

Atropos was right. The wind was changing, and as excited as Orpheus was for what that might mean for him and Eurydice, he could see the kind of toll it was taking on Persephone. It told him that she trusted him far more than she had the past few years, but it also meant that he could see her discomfort a lot more easily now than ever before. And regardless of what she wanted, he was going to do his best to help. He was her friend, and he wasn’t planning on letter her deal with any of it alone. She was the anchor that tied him firmly to the web. He wasn’t about to give that up.

Persephone pursed her lips, and though Orpheus knew she didn’t quite believe him, she didn’t press. He was grateful. He needed to sort Eurydice out on his own, and he didn’t want to ruin what might be one of Persephone’s last days at the Lady of Ways. That was probably pessimistic thinking, but it was the truth. He shook his head slightly, trying to clear it. All that remained was to be there for Persephone for as long as he could.

\--

Orpheus’ shift was over far earlier than he was truly comfortable with, but he took the time to make sure Persephone was alright before he left. He didn’t dare ask whether she would still be there tomorrow. If she wasn’t, he wasn’t entirely certain he wanted to know. After all, there wasn’t a plan in place, and it didn’t seem like Hermes was willing to tell him about any plan until he’d figured out his relationship with Eurydice. It wasn’t even a  _ relationship _ , yet. Just the fact that he sort of knew her, and he wanted to know her better.

That was why he was here, sitting in his usual spot, and playing for a crowd whose faces all blurred together after a while. Orpheus wished he could remember them all, wished he could know their stories, but he had seen so many people in the few weeks he’d been playing. It wasn’t his fault that some of them tended to blend together instead of sticking out like they should have. He must have seen a couple hundred faces since he first started playing. Of course he recognized the ones who stayed to watch whenever he played (though, he would realize later, he still didn’t know their names or their stories), those who came only once or twice were quickly forgotten. Especially when his mind was as occupied as it was that night.

Eurydice was going to be there. That was what her letter said, at least. Orpheus didn’t think she would have any reason to lie about that. She didn’t need to send the letter, she could have just disappeared and there was nothing Orpheus could do about that. He had nothing but her name, and he respected her privacy enough not to try to go after her with just that information. Besides, it wasn’t like there was only one name per person. Even if Eurydice was a mildly uncommon name, there were probably at the very least a dozen other people with the same name. He didn’t know if he’d ever be able to find her again with just her name, and she probably knew it as well. If she wanted to be done with Orpheus, she’d had a number of options. She hadn’t taken any of them, and selfishly, Orpheus hoped that meant she wanted more from him. He hoped that meant she wanted to see him again, as badly as he wanted to see her.

She wasn’t at the station as he was playing. Orpheus had checked every hiding spot he could think of before he’d started playing, and even his music hadn’t brought her out. His fingers hurt from pressing into the strings after a couple hours of playing, but still he didn’t stop. Part of him wondered if his desperation bled into the music he played. Did the people listening know he was waiting for someone? Did they care that his music was more for a girl who wasn’t there than it was for them? Orpheus had started this journey playing only for himself, and just as soon as it had been meant for a wider audience, Eurydice had caught his eye. Perhaps it was a good thing, though, that he didn’t play to please the public. That path likely led to him never feeling happy with what he played, because he knew even now that he couldn’t please everyone. The best he could do was try to touch one or two lives as he shared what lay within his heart.

Orpheus closed his eyes after an hour or two, trying to forget the fact that he hadn’t seen Eurydice yet. He needed to start playing for himself rather than for her. Who was he, if he only played for a girl he barely knew? What did that say about who he was? Was he really that desperate for her? He knew the answer was yes, but he wasn’t fully ready to admit that to himself.

It had been hours, and the sun had long set. There were people setting up around the station that Orpheus didn’t recognize, and a number of them put him on edge. The crowd had dissipated as the late-night crowd moved in. As it turned out, the late-night crowd didn’t like to linger. Many of them arrived at the station only a few minutes before their train was ready to depart. Orpheus most certainly didn’t begrudge them that. The ability to trust strangers decreased after dark, whether Orpheus was willing to admit it or not.

Eventually, there were only one or two people watching from afar, and Orpheus had to admit that if Eurydice had been there at all, he had missed her. It was a terrible thing to acknowledge - that he might not have seen her even if she was there, but he couldn’t think of any other explanation. He didn’t want to admit to himself that she probably hadn’t shown up at all. Why would she, after all? Orpheus was just a boy she didn’t know. Maybe she liked his music, but that didn’t mean that she liked  _ him. _ Why would she? Orpheus felt as though he knew her, but there had never been any indication that she felt the same way.

Orpheus carefully tucked his guitar in his case, paying the others at the station no heed. They were all going their separate ways, and that wasn’t Orpheus’ business. Perhaps he needed to stop delving into other people’s lives. Perhaps he shouldn’t have staked such an interest in a girl he was confident he would never see again. It made what felt like a broken promise hurt so much more.

Shaking his head, Orpheus passed by the seat where he had seen her the first time, and it was only by luck that he paused. He had the feeling of something in his shoe, and as he braced himself on the arm of the chair, he noticed something tucked into the metal underneath it. It wouldn’t have been particularly visible to someone who wasn’t looking for it, and Orpheus’ heart stopped as he knelt down to rescue it.

His book. In near-perfect shape, as though it had never once been out of his hands. Was Eurydice letting him go? Was this her signal that she wanted nothing more to do with him? Orpheus tucked it into the zippered outer part of his guitar bag and hurried along. It was dark enough that he felt a little bit more comfortable catching the train home than he did walking. At least on the train he’d pass by fewer people. He needed the space to think for himself, not be surrounded by strangers who would want to give input on his life. There was nothing anyone could say to him that would make any of this make sense.

As tempted as he was to open the book on the train and flip through it to see if there had been any changes made or notes added, Orpheus figured it would be better to wait until he got home. His biggest fear was pages missing. He just had to hope Eurydice had been kind. He had to hope that when Eurydice had decided to give his heart back, she had given it back whole.


End file.
